


Loose Ends

by bees_stories



Series: The New Team Torchwood Adventures [12]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Torchwood(s), Case Fic, Clones, Crossover, Gen, Murder, New Team Torchwood - Freeform, Relationship Conflict, Sherlock Series 1 Spoilers, medical drama, non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Drew Davidson's first day back in Cardiff, and it's a busy one. When a young woman ends up in the St Bart's morgue Molly Hooper asks Sherlock to take a look to confirm her unusual findings. But anatomical anomalies aren't all they discover. There's also a business card for Captain Jack Harkness secreted in the lining of the woman's jacket. Sensing an opportunity for a case much more interesting than recovering a lost set of pearls, Sherlock summons Jack to London while members of the team remaining in Cardiff must also contend with an alien creature infesting the Penarth Marina.</p><p>Contains non-consensual sexual situations and scenes of a violent and disturbing nature consistent with the Torchwood and BBC Sherlock canons.<br/>A/N: Thanks to rabecka for the beta assist!</p><p>A/N: Occurs during the early part of series one of <em>Sherlock</em> and follows <a href="http://beesandbrews.livejournal.com/331029.html">The New Man</a> in the New Team Torchwood chronology. It's a sequel to <a href="http://beesandbrews.livejournal.com/255184.html">Aliens are Boring</a>, the events of which are mentioned in this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * * 

Ianto Jones settled behind his desk in the little sanctuary he'd created in the archivist's wing, and as he reached up to switch on the antique brass reading lamp, he hoped for a quiet night. He had been neglecting his paperwork in favour of other pressing tasks, including the renovation of a canteen area for the increasing number of staff, and he needed to play catch up.

There was a stack of routine requisitions that needed approval. He skimmed through them quickly, and signed off on all of them, dropping the completed forms into his out tray for Marsha, their receptionist, to send out in the morning.

There were a couple of promising CVs forwarded by Jack's close friend and ally Martha Jones. Both candidates would make ideal additions to the science staff. Ianto routed those to Simon, who handled nearly all of the special research tasks, for background checks. If they continued to appear promising, then he would forward them to Jack for a final decision.

There was a sheaf of items from the rehabilitation centre for time-displaced people on Flat Holm island. More requisitions, this time for clothing and recreation items. There was a brief from Ryan, the facility manager, complete with sketches and a bill of materials, about the proposed greenhouse. Everything seemed in line with what they had discussed on his last visit, so Ianto signed off on the scheme, and put the file in his out tray.

Three cases had been deemed by the doctors to be hopeless. The returnees, Asa Barnes, Miles Wilkens and Karen Ferris, had been too traumatised by their journey through the Rift to ever be mainstreamed back into society, even at a mental health facility like Providence Park. Ianto set the files on Jack's stack of paperwork. If he approved, a team of specialists would go to work. Asa, Miles, and Karen would be found, or at least their reasonable facsimiles would be. Cover stories would be created to explain their disappearances, and the sad circumstances of their deaths. Their families would be able to properly grieve, and three missing persons cases could be closed. 

With a weary sigh, Ianto moved on. He picked up a letter from Janie, the youngest member of the Flat Holm colony, who was also its first resident. Her cheerful update about her adventures apprenticing in the facility's kitchen, was written in an exuberant hand. It was the reminder Ianto needed that not all rift returnees lives were filled with pain and misery. He smiled as he read about the 'Happy Weekend' cake she'd created, and then he jotted a quick message back, promising to come and sample her efforts as soon as his schedule permitted. He added the completed letter to his out tray and then opened a letter from Emma Cowell, a returnee who had made a success of her new life in London. She had enclosed an invitation for him and Jack to attend a fashion show at an exclusive Knightsbridge boutique, where several of her retro-hip fashions were to be featured.

Ianto made a note on his calendar, and Jack's, freeing the day so they could attend, and then he moved on to the next item on his to do list.

A number of small items had been recovered from an estate sale in Swansea. There was a small clock, made of stone and crystal. It was beautifully crafted, and it chimed melodiously at roughly three hour intervals. It seemed likely that, once upon a time, it had been displayed with pride on the mantel of someone who lived on a planet with an eighteen hour day.

There was also an elaborately worked broach made of a silvery-blue metal that wasn't native to Earth. The broach was encrusted with gemstones that glittered with inner fire, even in the subdued office lighting. Ianto admired it for a moment, and then once he'd taken its photograph for the official record, he set it aside in favour of a child-sized blanket with unusual properties. He ran his palm over the fluffy fibres and watched as the colour changed to a soothing shade of blue. He felt a sense of security flow over him, as if he was safe and protected from whatever the outer world threatened to rain down on his head.

Ianto removed his hand from the cloth, and the feeling gradually faded. He contemplated the possibility of marketing an actual security blanket, and felt a bit dazzled. But launching such a product out into the world would have to wait until the science group could do a thorough analysis of the fabric. They would determine if its properties could be replicated, or if using the blanket had untoward side effects.

Until they could do their investigation, it would pay to be cautious. Ianto snapped on a pair of disposable gloves, and then folded the security blanket carefully before putting it away in a containment box. Then he wrote a note, describing in detail the effects he'd experienced, and attached it to the top of the box. Finally, he assigned provisional archive locations to each item, and then set the three lots on a cart by the door. Once the science group had gone over them carefully, they could be put away.

He glanced at the clock on the wall and decided for a time, at least, he'd done enough. He tucked the items that needed to be routed elsewhere under his arm, rolled the cart outside for his clerk to contend with in the morning, then went upstairs, and walked straight into chaos.

* * *

"Why do they never listen?" Bill Bexley, once a Manchester constabulary desk sergeant, and now a Torchwood investigator, groused to Dr Felicity Porter as they rolled a trolley into the medical bay.

"What's happened?" Ianto said as he fell in behind them. Nurse Alice Baker brought in a tray of medications from the little dispensary, placed it within reach of the treatment bed, and then stepped out of the way to wait for further instructions.

"It's Melvin, that daft apeth," Bexley said over his shoulder. "I told him, just because the little beggars look harmless, it don't mean you shouldn't be careful."

"On three. Mind his hand," Felicity said. She looked at Bill and then got a firm grip on Malcolm Melvin's shoulders. "One. Two. Three." They lifted in unison and transferred the injured rookie onto the treatment bed.

"We got an urgent assistance call from the dispatch centre," Bexley explained as Felicity reached into her lab coat pocket and handed off a bag of tubes and slides to Alice. "A group of young lads, out of their heads, babbling about pixies, down at Penarth Marina. Police arrived on scene, and then they requested paramedics, when the lads started throwing fits. Fair enough. But then this little fuzzy wotsit reared its head, and the coppers saw their fangs, and realised that the lads weren't high by conventional means, and it was a job for us. So off we trot. Got the wotsit cornered, and Bright Light there," he said with a tip of his head towards the treatment bed, "decided he was going to coax it out with a bare hand, not realising that the pixie boys had probably done the same."

Old habits died hard, Ianto thought. Like many non-commissioned officers, Bill Bexley had picked up the habit of running down his subordinates. But it was done with affection, and out of a sense of concern. Anyone (or thing) that hurt one of _his_ lads (including those of the female persuasion), did so at their own peril.

"I'm almost certain it's an alkaloid-type poisoning," Felicity explained, as she continued to work over her patient. "The test results will confirm it." She glanced backwards towards the lab, with an expression that suggested she was mentally willing the machines to do their jobs faster, and then dropped her gaze to the dressed wound on Malcolm Melvin's left hand. "If he'd ingested it, I could do more. But with a bite –" She shook her head. "We'll get him stabilised and as comfortable as we can, but he's going to be in for a rough ride."

"What about the creature?" Ianto asked Bexley.

"Contained, and sent downstairs for observation," he replied. "I've left a pair of our lads to search the area, just in case it had friends."

Ianto nodded. "Post some signs at the scene, 'Sewage Spill Area Closed', and mount some cameras and motion sensors. We'll keep an eye on the beach for a few days, just to be safe."

"Right you are, sir." Bexley gave Malcolm one last pitying look, and then strode out of the infirmary as Felicity slipped a sleep mask over the afflicted rookie's eyes, and then injected something into his I.V. feed.

The desk phone rang. Alice promptly answered. "It's Dr Chen," she said. "With a report from the hospital."

Felicity held out her hand and Alice put the receiver into it as firmly as if she was handing over a scalpel. "Dan," Felicity said. "What's your situation?" She listened, nodding occasionally, even as her frown deepened. "Right. Isolate them in a darkened room and call me if there's any change." She handed the phone back to Alice, and then motioned that they should leave Malcolm's side.

Alice rolled a privacy screen around the bed, and then moved a stool inside its perimeter so that she could keep watch more comfortably.

"Why do we always have to learn things the hard way?" Felicity asked as she stripped away her gloves and tossed them in the bin. She walked up the catwalk, where they still maintained a small kitchenette, and poured coffee into a mug. 

She offered the mug to Ianto, and he took it as he replied, "Human nature, I suppose. We always want to see the best in people." He glanced down towards the infirmary. "Or small, furry, alien creatures. We never look for their teeth, even though we know that we should."

They took seats across from one another at a round café-style table that occupied the space where Ianto's desk had once been, and sipped at their cups. Felicity seemed to have something other than furry space aliens on her mind.

"Is something troubling you?" Ianto asked.

Felicity ran her fingers through her fringe and sighed. "Maybe?" she said as if she wasn't entirely sure. "Drew's coming back tomorrow."

Ianto sipped coffee and waited quietly for Felicity to open up.

"I'm not worried, exactly, but I have concerns."

"What sort of concerns?" Ianto asked, although he could think of several reasons why Felicity might be developing cold feet over the clone's return to Torchwood.

She pressed her lips together for a moment and studied the rim of her coffee mug. "It's the memory modifications." She looked up sharply and sighed. "I'm worried about their stability."

"You mean about him breaking the Retcon."

Felicity nodded. "He was meant to come back to his own flat. But he can't move into a building with a missing roof."

Ianto nodded back, although there was humour in his expression, where there had been frustration in hers. "That would be awkward given the recent weather."

"I'm just afraid that his living with Andy and me will trigger memories that are best left alone." Felicity worked at her fringe again. She looked like she had the beginnings of a tension headache.

"Would it make it easier if he stayed at mine, until we can get him sorted?" 

As Felicity contemplated the depths of her coffee mug, Ianto remembered what he'd said when Andy had been on the verge of a meltdown. Then he'd said he'd jump at the chance to have another one of himself around. He'd been only thinking of the benefits, but he hadn't ever seriously considered the personal ramifications. Knowing how he felt about Jack, and knowing that his clone would feel the same, could he deprive his duplicate of the same emotions? Would a duplicate of himself be as selfless as Andy's had been, and willingly have his memories and feelings modified? 

Would he try and cope with the loss, pining for something he couldn't have?

Or would the three of them try to come to some alternate arrangement?

The situation was uncomfortable to contemplate from a distance, and yet as the centre point of a potential triangle, they were the very questions that Felicity must have been wrestling with for the last month. Ianto felt a great wave of compassion for the woman who sat quietly across from him. 

Felicity looked up and her expression was an unhappy one. "It would. I wish I would have thought to ask. But I've already told Andy that Drew is part of our family now, and of course he's welcome to stay. But he's going to have a difficult enough time adjusting to his new life if the modifications break down, and he's left to pine after someone that he can't have."

"Have you discussed your concerns with Dr Waverley?" Ianto asked. Many of the memory modification techniques they used at Flat Holm had been developed by the elderly alien doctor. His particular empathic talents were especially useful in cases like Drew's, where both memories and emotions needed to be manipulated.

Felicity nodded. "He's the best at what he does, and I trust both him and his work, but I can't help but worry." She sighed, and then smiled ironically. "You'd think I'd have been here long enough by now to roll with the unusual, but I think I've hit a personal wall. I'm still having a hard time getting my head around a walking, talking, fully memory intact, clone. It was all right as long as he was in abstract, incubating in the tube. But I've got to confess, that those first days after he was decanted, were some of the toughest I've ever faced."

Ianto reached out and touched Felicity's hand. He smiled at her gently. "If you hadn't said anything, I would have never known. But –" He met Felicity's gaze and held it. "If you need to talk to someone... If the situation becomes overtly awkward or difficult, tell me. It's not too late to transfer Drew to Arts and Antiques, and base him out of London. If need be, we can send him back to Flat Holm for additional modification. He doesn't have to have to remain at Torchwood."

"It's what Andy wants," Felicity said.

The urgent assistance summons from Alice, notifying Felicity that Malcolm was showing new signs of distress, followed by the chime of Ianto's mobile, notifying him he was needed out in the field, came as a relief to them both.

Ianto offered one final assurance. "We'll find a way to make this work," he said softly.

Felicity nodded, and then visibly pulled herself together before rising from the table to put her mug in the sink. She smoothed her palms over her scrub top, pushed her fingers through her fringe, and then turned on her heel, perfectly composed, as she descended the catwalk, apparently without any concerns other than for her patient.

* * * 

Sasha Sixtrees was a long way from home. A couple of thousand parsecs as a meteor flew, give or take, and a thousand years in the past, as she reckoned time. But that didn't matter. What did matter was she was in serious trouble, with no way out. She should have never left the safety of Cardiff. Not alone, anyway. In Cardiff, she had a job waiting tables in a café. She had even made a few friends.

But impetuousness had got the better of her. She was free for the first time in her life, and wanted to take advantage. When she walked by the poster of Westminster Abbey for the hundredth time on her way to work, she decided that looking at a picture wasn't good enough. _Seize the day!_ her friend Patty was always telling her when she would wistfully talk about her silly dreams. She wanted to see for herself the ornate tombs, and the high, vaulted ceilings. She wanted to walk amongst graves of the kings and queens and other notable personages of her adopted home, and like the rest of the tourists, be awed and inspired. 

So she'd seized the day and pulled a sickie, coughing pathetically into the phone to sell her story. She'd practically run all the way home to hastily pack a few clothes and personal items into a rucksack, and then headed straight for the bus station before she could change her mind.

When a man had leant over the seat back and smiled, she hadn't thought anything of it. When he started to chat her up, moving into the empty seat next to her, she'd been glad of the company. Pretending she was her more gregarious friend, rather than her timid self, she'd chattered away about her plans to play tourist. Which in retrospect, had been stupid of her.

 _Don't speak unless you're spoken to, and if you do, keep it to a minimum_ , was advice that had been drilled into her since she was a child, and yet she had talked, and talked, encouraged by her seat-mate as they lumbered over the Severn bridge and rolled closer to London.

By the time they pulled into Victoria station they'd become chums, or so Sasha thought. She hadn't thought twice when Al had offered to buy her lunch as a Welcome to London treat.

Her last memory before waking up in the brothel was Al putting his arms around her, patting her on the head, and saying, 'There, there, duck, you've had too much excitement for one day'.

So much for her London adventure, because kidnap and forced prostitution hadn't figured into Sasha's plans. Her first client hadn't wanted a willing partner. The ones after that had been the sort of people who expected instant obedience. Her former life on Solari had given her experience enough with that sort. In the tavern, a smile was useful in avoiding a slap. So Sasha had smiled and kept her eyes open, and learnt her customers' little ways. In her new life, she employed the same skills, and most of the time it saved her bruises. 

Sasha thought bitterly of Al, who turned out to be anything but her friend, and her own stupidity as she tried to keep her chin from trembling when the man began to strip out of his clothes. He was one of the house's _special_ clients, which meant he could have anything his perverted little heart desired. _Eclectic by name, eclectic by taste_ , was the house motto. In short, it was a brothel that catered to everyone, as long as they had cash to pay.

Something pinged in the back of Sasha's brain. The bloke looked sort of familiar. He wasn't good looking, so not a model that she'd seen whilst flipping through magazines during her work break. Nor was he someone she'd fantasized about during a long night at home with the DVD player. She often glanced at the newspapers while she was cleaning up at the café. Maybe that's where she'd seen him. 

They expected her to smile, so Sasha smiled. The smile had to be convincing. If it wasn't, there would be unpleasant consequences. The memory of a slap across her face, hard enough to make the world go dim, made Sasha turn up the wattage. She dipped her head and looked up through the veil of her eyelashes, as she'd been instructed. Clients liked the coy look.

This one certainly did. He licked his lips and leered back as he undid the buttons of his shirt, and then carelessly dropped it onto the floor. His vest came next. His skin was smooth, devoid of hair, and slightly reddened. He'd waxed recently. Maybe he'd had the works when he'd last visited the salon and had his hair trimmed. His nails were buffed, too, like he'd had them manicured.

Definitely a high roller.

He undid the button of his trousers, and slowly lowered the zip. There was a noticeable bulge tenting the briefs underneath.

Sasha swallowed back her nervousness as he beckoned her forward. He ran his hands over her body, inspecting her for flaws or imperfections, and found her acceptable. He squeezed her breasts, and then took her by the shoulders and pushed her down to her knees, before handing her a condom.

It was all so predictable.

Sasha retreated inside her head as she tore the wrapper and placed the condom on her tongue. One more little service of the house, applying the condom as foreplay. Retreating was a skill she had picked up long ago; a way to make a boring life less tedious. Now it helped her survive. She ran her tongue over her client's shaft, smoothing the latex into place, and gave every outward appearance that she was enjoying her task, looking up from time to time and smiling. In her head, Sasha was walking alone and unmolested, through a field of tall grass and fragrant flowers. It was a memory of home, one of the few good ones.

She barely noticed when the man lifted her off her feet and carried her over to the bed. She ignored the rustle of packaging as he applied latex gloves over his perfectly manicured hands. She didn't notice, until it was much too late, when a pillow was placed over her face, and the man, whose identity she finally recalled, entered her body with an enthusiastic thrust of his hips.

* * * 

John Watson passed a sleepless night, not a huge surprise given that his sister Harry, drunk out of her mind, had called repeatedly, seeking reassurances that even though she was a horrible disappointment as a human being, he still loved her.

"Of course I love you. We're family," he had said, even though he was seething. Why couldn't she choose a more reasonable hour to fall prey to the blues, he wondered. Why did she have to pick the first night in a week Sherlock's insomnia had temporarily abated, and John had been able to climb into bed at a reasonable hour?

During the fourth phone call there had been sounds in the background. Marian, Harry's latest girlfriend, came onto the line. "I'm sorry, John." She sounded truly apologetic, and also very tired. Marian was an Attending in the A and E at Charing Cross Hospital, and no doubt had already had a busy night. "My shift ran long. I promise that Harry won't trouble you again tonight."

She had rung off before he could thank her. John hung up the phone. He tried to let go of his frustrations, but instead, he spent the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling wondering about how twins like he and Harry could be so similar, and yet so different. How, they had both been beset by demons, and yet he had found a way to channel his, while she was on the verge of being consumed by hers, despite the best efforts of her family and friends.

"Why are you still in bed?"

John groaned into his pillow. He had finally nodded off around seven o'clock, and he had the distinct impression that very little time had passed. He rolled over and glared up at Sherlock. "Haven't you heard? It's the most popular place to sleep," he said sarcastically.

When John had retired for the night, Sherlock had been sprawled, face down on the sofa. To his amusement, Sherlock had creases from the cushions cut into his cheek. "You should try it some time."

"We have an appointment this morning."

John groaned. He totally had forgotten about the theft of Lady Bolton's pearls. "Right. Right. Start the tea before you get into the bath. I'll be down in ten minutes." He rolled over and reburied his head in the pillow, wondering why the Universe seemed to have it in for him.

* * * 

Everything was damp from the previous night's rain. DI Greg Lestrade looked around the crime scene and felt a mild sense of depression wash over him. The victim was a young woman. No more than twenty-five or so. She was propped against the wall, just inside the mouth of the alleyway, as if she was sheltering from the weather. Just one more homeless person, down on their luck.

Anderson and the rest of the SOCO were busy documenting the scene. The blue protective suits they wore looked alien and out of place on the busy London street.

Just another day at the office.

His mobile rang. Greg winced when he looked at the display. He knew what the call was about, and how it would go if he answered. He rejected the call, and dropped the mobile back into his pocket. He didn't have time for an ear bashing from his missus.

Guilt got the better of him as he looked down into the bruised face of the young woman. She had been someone's daughter too. He wondered if her father had been a disappointment to her, and that's why she was on the streets. With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, retrieved his mobile for a second time, and sent a text. _The cheque is in the post. Sorry!_ From the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the envelope that he'd meant to mail the night before, walked a short distance down the street, and dropped his daughter's school trip expenses into the post box.

Family obligation attended to, he went back to see what SOCO could tell him about the dead woman.

* * * 

"Good morning, Molly!" Sherlock said brightly as he barged into the autopsy suite.

John smiled at her and then gave Sherlock a resigned look. "Remember, you said, five minutes. And then we have to go, or we'll be late."

Even though she was used to Sherlock's presumptuous ways, Molly Hooper felt a stab of irritation on behalf of the deceased. They might be dead, but they still deserved a measure of respect. But she brushed off the feeling quickly, because nothing about the body she was currently working on made sense, and she was grateful of a second opinion – any second opinion, including Sherlock's – to verify her strange findings.

"I'm glad you're both here." Molly shot John an apologetic smile, and then beckoned Sherlock to join her. "Tell me what you see." She stepped back from the table and watched as Sherlock took a pair of gloves from the box on the counter and put them on. He stalked over to the table and stared down at the body reclining on its stainless steel surface. John glanced down at his watch with an annoyed expression, and then followed.

"A slightly undernourished woman of approximately twenty-five years of age," he began. "Cyanosis of the face, with the exception of the skin around the nose and mouth. Classic signs of asphyxia." He lifted an eyelid. "Petechiae are present on the sclera. Wait a minute. What's this?"

"Thank, God," Molly said. "I thought I was imagining. It's a third eyelid, isn't it."

"I'm sorry," John stepped up to the corpse to get a look for himself. "did you say a _third eyelid_?"

"She did, indeed," Sherlock answered as he shifted slightly to make room for John. "Curious." He continued his examination, reaching absently for a wooden tongue depressor from the tray of instruments, and used it to examine the corpse's mouth. "Signs of trauma. She bit her tongue. Repeatedly."

"And look at this." Molly used a retractor to expose the chest cavity. "Look at her lungs."

Sherlock poked and prodded for a moment. "Traumatic damage – " He straightened and looked at Molly with an intensely perturbed expression. "And a third lobe. Very curious indeed." He pulled off his gloves. "Tell me, Molly, did you find any identification on the body?"

She nodded her head and then went to the stack of clothing she had carefully removed from the corpse. "I found this sewn inside the lining." She handed Sherlock a damaged white business card printed with the letter T in a fancy font, a phone number, and the name Jack Harkness. Despite the wear from being laundered, the ink on the card was still bright.

Sherlock's eyes widened as his gaze travelled from the business card to the corpse and back again. "Interesting." He gave Molly a bright smile. "Thank you, Molly!"

Molly looked up into Sherlock's face. She saw the glimmer of excitement in his eyes which meant he was particularly fascinated by the events unfolding before him. "What does it mean?"

Sherlock ignored her. He pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket and dialled the number on the card. "This is Sherlock Holmes. There's a body in the morgue at Bart's in London that was found with your card on it." He listened for a few moments. "Yes, I thought you might find it of interest. Until then." He rang off, pocketed his phone again, and then returned to the corpse's side. "Now, we haven't much time. Let's see what else we can learn about your murder victim." 

"Sherlock!" John sighed, and then he reached for his own mobile. He dialled a number and began to explain that Sherlock had been unavoidably detained, and then he asked if they might they reschedule their appointment for a later time.

Molly felt as if she'd stepped off into the deep end. "I don't understand. Whose card is that?" She looked down into the damaged face of the corpse. "Who is she?"

Sherlock snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for a scalpel. He continued to ignore her as he excised the lungs, humming snatches of classical music as he and John continued her interrupted autopsy.

* * * 

Ianto gasped as he surged out of a nightmare and back into the waking world. His phone was ringing, thank God. Without the external stimuli to prod him into wakefulness, he'd still be mired in the tentacles of the dream. And in this particular instance, the dream had involved _actual_ tentacles, attached to a horrific alien monster, that surged out of the bay, writhing all of its appendages menacingly as they reached out with the intention of hauling him off the quayside and into an intimate embrace.

Avoiding the question of why he was tied to a post, naked and exposed, in the dream, Ianto sternly remonstrated himself never to consume any media based on the works of H.P. Lovecraft again, especially before retiring. He threw back the bedclothes and groped for the phone, answering without looking at the caller I.D. "Hello," he mumbled.

_Ianto, sorry to wake you, but we've got work to do._

Ianto rubbed sleep from his eyes and looked over at the clock. It was nine o'clock in the morning. Normally, he would have been up and about for hours, but he hadn't left the Hub until dawn. He'd only been asleep for two hours, which explained the heavy, sand-filled feeling in his brain, and the difficulty he was having getting his eyes to focus. 

"Sorry, Jack, give me a minute. I'm still half asleep."

 _Me too. I know you had a long night, but I can't. I need you to be packed and standing outside your door in fifteen minutes. I've got a situation in London, and I'm going to need your help._

Ianto nodded, even though Jack couldn't see. "Right. See you then." He disconnected the phone, and hauled himself out of bed, leaving the crumpled and sweat-dampened bedclothes in a heap on the floor. He'd showered before retiring, but headed straight for the bathroom to shower again. Jack had sounded curiously intense, and Ianto had a feeling he'd need all of his wits about him to contend with whatever was calling them to London.

A brisk blast of cold water, a fast cleaning of his mouth to remove the fur from his teeth and tongue, and a buff with a fresh towel, took up seven of Ianto's allotted fifteen minutes. It was only after he'd finished splashing on aftershave that he realised he'd wasted precious time by reflexively using his razor, and shaving unnecessarily. Dressing in a sharply tailored black suit, pristine white shirt, and crimson power tie ate up another five minutes, which left no time for coffee, but just enough for a glass of orange juice and a pair of aspirin tablets. He was still grimacing over the toothpaste-orange juice mismatch as he double checked his ready bag for missing items. His spare 9mm pistol was still in its holster, but it lacked an extra clip. Ianto got one from his gun safe, and buried it underneath his clean shirt next to his socks and underwear.

He locked the door to his flat, and was halfway down the garden pathway when Jack pulled up to the kerb.

Jack leant across the seat and opened the door. His face was set in tense lines. "The boot's open," he said by way of greeting.

Ianto nodded and then followed the implied instruction to deposit his holdall in the boot, and not waste any time doing it. He slid into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes Benz E-class sedan, and reached for the seatbelt as Jack pulled away from the kerb.

"I got a call this morning," Jack said after rounding a corner and pulling in front of a delivery van. "from Sherlock Holmes." He looked over at Ianto sharply. "I know he's handsome and clever, but do _not_ go all fanboy on me."

Ianto shook his head solemnly, even as he fought to keep his eyes from widening with surprise. He'd always wanted to meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. "The detective. Really," he replied in his most disinterested manner.

Jack shot him a look that said he wasn't buying the nonchalant act. "Yes, really. A body turned up in the morgue at Bart's hospital. There was one of my business cards among the personal effects. A card with my _private_ emergency number on it."

Ianto nodded again, this time with a concerned frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. Jack gave out that particular number to a very select group of people, everyone else was routed through the Torchwood switchboard. "Do we know who it is?"

Jack adjusted his sunglasses, but they couldn't disguise the upset he was trying to hide. "I sent Stuart down there to secure the scene. Let him talk cop to cop to the locals, and smooth the waters until we arrive. He sent me a photo. It wasn't a pretty picture, but the woman in the photo looked an awful lot like Sasha Sixtrees."

Ianto frowned at the name, and conjured a mental picture of a shy and painfully polite young woman who wasn't exactly an alien, but wasn't entirely human either. "What was she doing in London?"

Jack shrugged. "I don't know. I put Andy onto tracing her last known movements. She booked off work sick, a month ago, and then never came back. The café is struggling, and the owner was debating cutting staff hours, so her leaving came at a convenient time. She didn't follow up when Sasha didn't come in to check the schedule." 

"Anything could happen in a month," Ianto said thoughtfully.

"No kidding. Anything including being murdered and dumped in an alley, which is what did happen to Sasha," Jack replied, and then he went back to dodging other cars so he was at the head of the pack as they climbed the ramp onto the M4.

Ianto settled against the leather upholstered seat back. A murder investigation meant a hundred details to keep track of. It meant Scotland Yard detectives with bruised egos to contend with. And it meant Jack in an avenging angel mood. It wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to take on when he was sleep deprived. There were three hours, give or take, between Cardiff and London, even with Jack in the driver's seat. He shut his eyes. "Wake me when we get to Hammersmith."

Hoping not to make the re-acquaintance of any of Lovecraft's monsters, Ianto slipped rapidly back into sleep.

* * * 

Greg Lestrade had a tension headache and it was getting worse. He'd just got off the phone with Anderson, who'd reported that Special Branch agents had confiscated all the evidence they'd collected from the crime scene, and now another one of their number, a red-headed Scot named Stuart Fraser, was barring him from entering the morgue.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, but it's the Captain's orders."

"Your _Captain_?" Greg pressed his lips together and gave the Scot a suspicious glare. "I thought you lot were Special Branch. All the Special Branch units I know of have numbers, not names." A sour feeling started to eat at his stomach as internal alarm bells began to clang. Something was very off. "I've never heard of this Torchwood."

Fraser shrugged back at him, refusing to take offence at his lack of respect.

"And when is this _Captain_ of yours supposed to grace us with his presence?"

"He's coming in from Cardiff, Inspector." The Torchwood agent used a gently apologetic tone, as if he knew the sort of trouble his mob was causing. "I'm afraid it may be some little while."

"You do realise this is a murder investigation," Greg said through gritted teeth. "And that every minute lost is time we won't get back."

The other man nodded in a way that suggested he shared Greg's frustration. "I used to be in the job, myself. I'm aware of your concerns, but I'm afraid, under the circumstances, it can't be helped." He brightened as a large, very pale, sandy-haired man came down the corridor. Another man, this one nearer to his own age, and rather unremarkable, followed close behind. He was pushing a cart laden with boxes. The large man and Fraser exchanged nods, and then Fraser returned his attention to Greg. "However, if you'd care to come to the hospital's canteen with me, I can have you sign some confidentiality documents that will speed things along when the Captain does arrive."

Greg rubbed his throbbing head. "Fine." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Whatever it takes."

The large man opened the door for the man with the cart, saw him in, and then took up a guard's stance in front of the door. Frowning at the scene that had just played out, Greg walked away from the morgue.

Deferentially, the Torchwood agent fell in a step behind Greg, rather than taking up a place at his side or leading the way. It made him feel slightly better, which he supposed was the agent's intention. He wasn't maliciously turfing Greg off the investigation because it stroked his ego to do so, his manner seemed to convey. He was just following orders. They walked without speaking to the lift. Fraser let Greg precede him into the car, and then depressed the button that would take them to the canteen.

"So, have you been with this Torchwood long?" Greg asked, hoping to glean something about the organisation that was so secret it had a code name instead of the usual MI classification.

"A while," Fraser replied.

"Interesting work?" Greg asked.

Fraser had a mischievous smile. It lit his face when he replied, "That would be telling."

Greg almost smiled back. It was clear that whatever he got up to, Stuart Fraser enjoyed his job. Since it seemed clear the man wasn't a bully, it made him feel a little better about the otherwise frustrating situation.

The bell announcing they'd arrived at their floor chimed, and the lift doors opened. Realising that he wasn't going to get anything out of his host that his host didn't want him to know, this time Greg extended his arm in an 'after you' gesture, and then fell in at Stuart Fraser's side as they strolled to the canteen.

* * * 

It was Drew Davidson's first day back, and it was turning into a hell of a day. Andy had practically manhandled him off the deck of the ferry that had carried him from Flat Holm island down the gangplank and into the van, and now they were on their way to the bedsit of a murder victim.

"Tell me some more about her, will you, Andy?"

Instead, Andy pulled a file folder from the dash and handed it over. "Her name was Sasha Sixtrees. Twenty-five, give or take, in Earth years, but she looked younger. Five foot three. Petite build. Blonde and brown. About a year ago, Ianto and the boss found her wandering the Barrage in a right state. Understandable, given she'd just had a one way ride via the Rift."

He pulled out of the car park and then concentrated on his driving as he cut a round a delivery van, and settled into the adjacent lane, before he continued the briefing.

"She spent a few months over on Flat Holm, where they speed taught her to speak English, and gave her the short course on local customs, and then Ianto used connections to get her a job at the Sunrise Café, waiting tables and the like. She seemed to be settling in well by all accounts and then – " He shrugged. "Then this morning, she's in London and dead."

"So our job is to?" Drew asked as he continued to skim the folder. Sasha had been born on Solari, one of planets that humans would some day colonise. He glanced out the window as a chill rode over him. There was nothing about the Rift that didn't make him uncomfortable. Sasha's transportation was just one more reason to hate the damned thing.

"Toss her flat." Andy turned onto a residential street a few streets away from the café where Sasha had worked. "See if she left a diary, or some kind of clue as to what she had planned when she got to London."

Drew sighed as Andy pulled up to the kerb in front of a trim row of houses. Maybe jumping straight back into work was for the best. It would keep him from thinking about his own difficulties.

"Sasha kept a room in Number 4," Andy said. "And Drew, don't worry about it."

Drew frowned. "About what?"

Andy chuckled. "I know that look, I've felt it on my own face enough times. You'll fit in fine. Work will be fine. As for the rest of it, I'm sorry your flat fell through, but it's no bother. The spare room is yours as long as you want it. Felicity insisted. And you know she wouldn't say so unless she meant it."

He cut the engine and put the van into park. "The only hitch will be Sunday lunch with Mum, but if you stick to the story about being one of Uncle Tom's bunch, she won't press. She and Tom haven't spoken more than three words since he moved to Canada, so she's not going to be checking up with him on why you've decided to relocate to Cardiff."

Andy really could read him, Drew thought. He'd have to keep that in mind while he was settling in. Not that he minded, as such, but – He took a breath and stretched tension out of his neck. His personal issues would have to wait until after the work day was done. He tucked the file under the seat and checked he had a notebook and pen tucked away in his jacket pocket, before cocking his head towards Number 4. "So, since I'm all sorted, then let's see what we can learn about Sasha."

Andy smiled and nodded. He seemed a bit relieved as he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the holdall crammed next to him between the seat and the door to keep it from falling out ahead of him. "Right. The boss is waiting."

* * *

Stuart picked a quiet corner of the canteen, got Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade comfortably settled, and then went to the service bar for coffee and pastry. He carried the tray back to the table, made sure everything was to his guest's satisfaction, and then removed a copy of the Official Secrets Act from his inside jacket pocket.

"As you might have guessed, this murder is something a little out of the ordinary."

The inspector rolled his eyes, which was an understandable reaction under the circumstances, and then he shrugged and nodded. "So I've surmised." He looked down at the heavy sheets of parchment. "What's this?"

Stuart uncapped a pen. "An acknowledgement that you agree that what I tell you goes no further."

The inspector sipped his coffee and seemed resigned. "So it's like that, is it?" He shrugged and then read the document with a pressed lipped expression of irritation, but signed without further comment.

Stuart nodded. "It's very much like that. You see, Inspector, Torchwood doesn't deal with garden variety crime. Your dossier says you've been taken into the confidence of the intelligence service, but this isn't their remit, either."

The inspector leant forward, and examined Stuart with a new-found interest. "So if you're not everyday crime, or intelligence, then what are you?" 

Even though their acquaintance had been a brief one, Stuart judged the detective a fairly even-keeled individual. He kept a tight rein on his temper, even though he'd had good reason to fly off the handle at the presumptuous way his investigation had been invaded. It seemed best to shoot straight from the shoulder with him, and not sugar-coat the truth. "The universe is a big place, Inspector, and every so often, some of our neighbours come calling. Most of them are good people, but sometimes – "

The inspector's expression became incredulous. "Pull the other one," he said with a smile. "That one had bells on."

Stuart shrugged and smiled back. He really did understand the reaction. He'd felt it himself, not so long ago. "Hand on heart," he said, and then he put his right hand over his chest to reinforce his words.

The inspector smiled even more broadly. "Is Sherlock Holmes an alien? Because that would explain a lot."

Stuart chuckled. "Not as far as I know." He sobered rapidly. "But our murder victim was."

Stuart got a frown as a reply, and then the inspector said softly, quietly, as if he didn't want to be overheard, "Was she an alien princess or something? Some kind of dignitary?"

"If that's a circumspect way of asking if her death is going to be the cause of a planetary invasion or other reprisal, then the answer is 'no'," Stuart replied. "She was just a young woman, far from home, who, until a month ago, was working hard to put together a new life in Cardiff. We don't know why she decided to come to London, or what happened to her once she arrived. But the Director of Torchwood, Captain Harkness, regards all of the people we help equally, princess or peasant. He wants to see justice done. And we have resources available to us to make that possible."

"And the Metropolitan Police doesn't?"

Stuart toyed with the plastic stirrer in his coffee cup. He knew that inadvertently he'd slighted his guest. "It's not that. The Met is a fine organisation. And its people are very good at what they do. But because of their circumstances, offworlders tend to move invisibly, in the shadows." He looked up and met the other man's eyes. "And so do we."

The inspector tossed back the last of his coffee. "Yeah, well now that you've stepped out of the shadows and onto my patch. So let's stop faffing about and find Sasha's killer. But first, I need to let my sergeant know what's going on. Is it all right if I make a phone call?"

Stuart nodded. "Of course."

The phone call was short and to the point. "Sally. Yeah, it's me. Listen. It's official, we're off the case. Yeah, well it turns out the vic got herself mixed up in something nasty." He nodded and put his hand over the speaker as he sighed.

"Yes, I know that's what we do, but this is Secret Squirrel stuff." The inspector shot Stuart an apologetic glance and then dropped his gaze again.

"No. I'm fine. But I've been temporarily seconded."

He listened for a few moments. From his expression, his sergeant was probably telling him where she thought the _Secret Squirrels_ could get off.

"I'm sure that would be entertaining, too, but right now I need you to do something for me, will you? Yeah, on the Peterson case. Something isn't sitting right about Bradock's alibi. The timing is off. Take DC Mason and a stopwatch with you and retrace Bradock's steps the morning of the murder. Then re-interview Mary March." He nodded. "Yeah, that's what I'm thinking, too." He glanced up at Stuart and then said, "I'll be in touch," before he ended the call.

"Right. That's her sorted." The inspector rose from the table and looked down at Stuart expectantly, "So tell me, sunshine, what are we going to do next?"

* * * 

Even though Cardiff had its fair share of surveillance cameras, it wasn't a patch on London. Tracking Sasha's movements after she got off the bus at Victoria Station was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Mark Landers, chief technician and head of the science group, sighed. He examined several photographs that had been taken of Sasha after her transportation through the Rift, and then chose two views, one that was taken straight on, and one in profile. He loaded the pair of photos into a facial recognition program, and then brought up a grid map of the camera network around the bus depot. If Sasha had been missing for days rather than a month, the search would have been relatively simple. The data recorded by the cameras would be in local storage, and much more accessible. But due to the amount of time elapsed, he needed to retrieve images from archive storage instead. Fortunately, London had decided to create a central storage server, which as haystacks went, was a much more acceptable venue to search than reams of physical media.

He opened a portal into the not-so-secure server, and let the mainframe due the heavy lifting. Even so, it would be hours, if ever, before they would have a result.

Frowning, Mark decided to cast a wider net. He went back to the footage of Sasha getting off the bus, and captured the images of the people around her. He enhanced their photos and fed them into the system too, and then he settled in to wait.

* * *

They were attempting to carry on, business as usual. _She who must be obeyed_ admitted clients to the front parlour and offered them light refreshments, verified their preferences for diversion, and then escorted them down the long, dimly lit corridor.

But underneath the quiet music and polite conversation, tension hummed. _She_ was displeased. And when _She_ was unhappy, everyone was unhappy.

The rest of the household spoke of Sasha's disappearance in whispers. Everyone knew the client that she'd entertained was dangerous. More than a few of those who served at their mistress's pleasure bore scars or had nightmares about their time with the client who was only known as Mr X, if he was spoken of by name at all. They knew he was wealthy. They knew he was powerful. And if he damaged the goods, then he tipped generously for the privilege, and was welcomed back with only the mildest of warnings to be less enthusiastic with his toys.

But he had never killed anyone before.

Ruby had been as close to Sasha as anybody in the brothel. They shared a room, when they weren't entertaining clients. They had held each other at the end of long nights, and wiped away each others' tears. They had shared stories of their old homes, and occasionally, of their thwarted dreams. They shared their hatred of Al, the genial kidnapper, who had lured both of them into a sense of false security, and then betrayed their trust.

Sasha had been Ruby's friend. Her only friend. All the others knew better than to make attachments, because they'd served their mistress long enough to become slaves in both body and spirit.

Ruby wasn’t like the rest of them. They had all given in. Whatever spirit they possessed had been broken, and they had become dull and unquestioning. _She_ on the other hand, always had a rebellious nature, and despite their best efforts, the Mistress and her minions hadn't quite broken her.

She had to escape. Somehow she needed to find a way out. To alert the authorities about what really went on in this house of horrors.

But first she had to contend with her next client. The man was a government official. An MP or a cabinet minister, Ruby wasn't sure which. She'd seen his picture and his name mentioned in the tabloids more than once, ridiculed for his lavish lifestyle, and the manor house he kept in the Hampshires, even though he was supposed to be a champion for the working people of Britain.

Ruby couldn't remember his name. What she did recall is he liked to use a fresh willow switch, and that she'd be required to cut it herself, because selecting the tool of punishment was part of his ritual. He would whip her until blood ran in rivulets down her thighs. She was expected to cry out. She was expected to confess that she had been very naughty, and admit she deserved every brutal slash he rained down on her naked flesh, and then she was supposed to beg for more.

And when he was finished and had gone away again, she would be expected to tend to her own wounds, because Sasha wasn't there to help her any more, and they hadn't yet drafted anyone to replace her.

There was a knock at the door, her signal to be ready. Ruby bowed her head, adopting a submissive pose, but her rebellious heart refused to submit any longer.

Later, after the people's champion had gone, she would find a way to escape. She would find a way to bring down the house of pain.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

* * * 

Gazza Lucas was on sentry duty. He stood comfortably, at parade rest, exuding an air of quiet menace that made hospital orderlies, and other employees, quicken their steps as they walked by the doors to the morgue. Jack pitied anyone who might hold the mistaken impression that Gazza was just there for show. Like all the former Torchwood Two operatives that he had inherited from Archie, Gazza was well trained in a variety of disciplines. He also had lightning quick reflexes. He was the sort of getaway driver bank robbers dreamed of, and he was also an efficient enforcer, who could drop an opponent with frightening speed.

"'Morning, Mr Jones. Captain Harkness." Gazza inclined his head politely. "I hope you had a pleasant journey, despite the circumstances."

"Fine," Jack replied. "Thanks for asking. Any trouble?"

There was a subtle shift of Gazza's features that betrayed amusement at the notion anyone could cause him difficulty. "No, sir," he said, and then opened the door so that they could enter.

At the sound of the door creaking, Sherlock Holmes looked up from the photograph he'd been studying. He was seated at a table with a compactly-built man who had the slightly befuddled look of someone who was out of his depth, but working hard to find his way. At another table, a woman wearing a lab coat, and a good looking guy whose hair had gone completely silver, were studying additional exhibits. Stuart was over in the corner, on his mobile. He was scrawling notes in a notebook, and nodding occasionally.

Holmes nudged his companion, and then inclined his head towards Jack and Ianto. "John, you remember Captain Jack Harkness and Mr Ianto Jones from the railway station. Now you can be formally introduced."

Jack cocked his head at an angle as he quickly shuffled through memories of recent trips to railway stations. Neither Sherlock Holmes nor his companion figured into any of them. And although he had swapped the occasional email or phone call with Mycroft Holmes, he had never had dealings with his younger brother in any way, shape, or form. "Sorry, I don't think I've had the pleasure."

"I think I can explain," the man called John said.

Jack belatedly recognised the blond man from the tabloids. 

"I'm John Watson, by the way, and what Sherlock means is, about a month back, you were at the Cardiff railway station waiting for a London-bound train. Sherlock and I were there as well. We were people watching to pass the time – "

"And you recognised me," Jack concluded flatly. He was used to being a figure of note around Cardiff, but the notion of being picked out of a crowd by a London-based detective bothered him for some reason.

John nodded and tipped his head towards Sherlock. "And that's when he told me about Torchwood." He regarded Jack curiously for a moment and then asked, "Is it true that you're more afraid of bureaucrats than aliens?"

Ianto suppressed a smirk. Jack did his best nonchalant shrug as he tried very hard to block the bespectacled face of Torchwood's latest auditor from his mind, and struggled to come up with a suitable comeback. He'd had nightmares involving death by a thousand paper cuts for a week after the London meeting.

Sherlock saved him, after a fashion. He turned his attention to Ianto. "I am sorry, Mr Jones, that the Captain's reliance on you cost you a full day's sleep."

Ianto frowned. "Excuse me?" He regarded Sherlock with a fascinated expression. "Your powers of deduction are well known, Mr Holmes. But if I might ask, how did you work that out?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Fairly easily, really."

Jack watched John Watson roll his eyes, while Ianto's lit up with a keen interest. He did his best to suppress a sigh. Despite being warned, Ianto was going to go all fanboy anyway.

"Although you are impeccably dressed," Sherlock said, "it is clear that you shaved in something of a hurry." He pointed at his own cheek. "You missed a spot, just there. A second shaving, if I'm not mistaken, due to the slight reddening from razor burn along your jawline. You would not have shaved a second time, had you been completely awake. Hence, I surmise you were wakened a short time after you had retired for the day. Your eyes are irritated, far more than they would be normally. You've been rubbing at them recently. And then, of course, there is the slight crust at the corner of your mouth, indicating that you slept the majority of the way from Cardiff."

Ianto's ears turned pink with embarrassment as his hand flew to his lips to wipe away the, barely noticeable, but still offending, crust of dried drool. He shot Jack a look that said in no uncertain terms that they would discuss the matter at a more convenient time. Jack shrugged back at him. He wasn't going to apologise for letting Ianto get a few more minutes of badly needed sleep.

The silver-haired man, who had the world-weary air of a senior police officer, got to his feet and crossed the room. "Now that you're finished simultaneously impressing and mortifying Mr Jones, Sherlock, do you think we could get on with some actual investigative work?" He stuck out his hand. "I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and this was my case, until you lot took it over."

Jack took the hand that had been offered to him and shook it firmly. "Jack Harkness." He turned slightly to introduce Ianto. "And this is Ianto Jones." He glanced over towards Stuart as Ianto shook hands with the Scotland Yard detective. "Stuart has explained the complexity of the situation?"

Greg Lestrade nodded. "He could have knocked me over with a feather. But I guess, in a way, it makes sense. There's been some awfully strange going ons over the last few years."

Over the last five years, London had its collective memory wiped several times to deal with major alien incursions, but it was entirely possible that smaller events had caught the detective inspector's attention.

Jack smiled and winked. "You have no idea." He was saved from explaining further by Stuart.

"Boss, that was Andy checking in."

Jack nodded, indicating it was all right for Stuart to report to the group assembled. He glanced down at the notepad in his hand, and then began to speak.

"He said he and Drew went through Sasha's bedsit. They found her bank details and ran a check. She used a debit card to purchase a coach ticket for Victoria Station on the fifteenth. They accessed the CCTV and caught a glimpse of her on her arrival, but then lost track of her again. They're running the London grid, trying to pick up her movements, but so far, no luck."

Greg Lestrade's eyes had gone wide during Stuart's report. Jack understood. While processing the vast amount of data produced by the London CCTV network was child's play for the Torchwood mainframe, it was a job of work for a Metropolitan police detective, especially when they were looking for a person who had been missing for a month.

"Anything else?" Jack asked.

Stuart glanced at his notebook again. "Sasha seemed London gaga. She had posters of Big Ben and Boadicea’s Chariot on her walls. There was a Paddington Bear decked out like a palace guard on her bed, and a Harrods biscuit tin on her desk, with one pound fifty in it."

"She must have cleared out the rest for travel expenses," Ianto said softly.

Jack nodded that he agreed. "What about after the bus ticket?" It was possible they could narrow down her location from other debit card transactions.

Stuart shook his head. "Nothing after that. She just got off of the coach and disappeared."

"What about forensics?" Jack asked. "Anything from the crime scene, or off the body?"

The woman with the lab coat smiled at him shyly, and raised her hand, as if she wished to be acknowledged. "Hi. I'm Molly Hooper. The pathologist?"

Ms Molly wasn't a confident woman, that was pretty obvious by the way she held herself. There was too much tension in her shoulders, and a look in her eyes that said she was resigned to being swept along by life.

Jack upped the wattage of his smile and strode forward to take the pathologist's smaller hand in his. He gave it a warm squeeze, and she smiled shyly back at him.

"Don't get ideas, Molly," Sherlock said before Jack could speak. "Captain Harkness and Mr Jones are a couple."

Molly blushed crimson and dropped her eyes as Jack wondered just what Sherlock had seen at the railway station. But whatever had happened then was less important than establishing a rapport with their hostess.

"I appreciate you allowing us to take up so much space, Ms Hooper. Or –" Jack gave her an extra flash of dimple. "Would it be okay if I called you Molly?"

Her blush deepened, and then she nodded. "Would you care to step this way?" She indicated that they should go through to the autopsy theatre.

On a stainless steel table, a green drape covered a dishearteningly small figure. Molly pulled back the drape, exposing Sasha's face. In life, she hadn't been conventionally beautiful, but when Sasha had been happy or excited, an inner light had made her shine with an attractive vivaciousness. There was none of that inner enthusiasm in her expression now.

Jack nodded solemnly, and then he looked away from Sasha's disfigured face. He'd hoped, really hoped, that somehow they'd been wrong.

"I'm afraid that the last weeks of the deceased weren't easy ones." There was a peculiar sadness in Molly's tone, as if she had known Sasha, and mourned her loss, or maybe she was just kind-hearted, and wanted to prepare Jack and the others for the worst. She cleared her throat and then picked up a clipboard from the metal tray table that stood alongside the autopsy table, and began to read from her report.

"There were a number of injuries to the body. Some fresh, and some in the process of healing. There are what appear to be healed cuts, made with a thin and supple implement, on her buttocks and thighs. There is faded bruising around her wrists, indicating she had been bound with tight restraints, sometime in the last week. And –" Molly hesitated for a moment, drew a breath, and then continued to report in a dispassionate tone. "She'd had very rough intercourse just prior to her death. There was a considerable amount of vaginal bruising and tearing."

"Semen?" Ianto asked.

Molly shook her head. "He used a condom."

"Cause of death?" Ianto asked the questions Jack didn't want to ask. It pained him to contemplate what Sasha had gone through because when he put the bits and pieces together in his head it added up to kidnap, torture and rape, followed by death by strangulation.

"I think her killer pushed her face into a pillow and she smothered," Molly replied. "We found fibres in her nose and mouth from a satin pillow."

"Satin?" Jack frowned. There was usually a shortage of satin pillows in London alleyways. Cardboard boxes were generally not in short supply. Nor were rubbish skips. But in his experience, unless you really struck lucky, satin pillows were a pretty rare commodity.

"Pink satin," Sherlock interjected. "Of a particularly fine manufacture."

Greg Lestrade's gaze travelled from Sasha's face to Sherlock's, and then to Molly's. "So we have one clue."

"Maybe more than one," Sherlock said.

Jack turned his head sharply to regard the infamous detective. There was something in his smug tone that suggested he was disappointed in all of them for missing the obvious.

"Would you care to enlighten us?" he drawled back, as he consciously uncurled his fingers from the fist they were forming of their own volition.

"Fine, pink satin, bedding," Sherlock began in a lecturing tone. He pointed at Sasha's lower half. "Healed cuts on the victim's thighs and buttocks, which based on their width and depth, were probably made by a twig switch, rather than a leather strap." He picked up Sasha's left hand, exposing the bruising for them all to get a good look at. "The marks on her wrists and ankles weren't made by anything as crude as a standard pair of handcuffs, or even cotton rope. No," he said as he shook his head, dismissing the idea out of hand. "That was made with something much more soft and pliable."

"A brothel," Ianto said. "You think Sasha was kidnapped, and then coerced into prostitution."

It was an ugly notion, but it did fit the facts.

"And there's one other thing." Sherlock went to the tray where Sasha's clothes were laid out neatly. "Observe her clothing."

Ianto took a pair of disposable gloves from the box, and then walked over to join Sherlock. Hesitantly, he picked up a faded denim jacket. "I recognise this. It was the first thing Sasha bought with her own money." He looked over at Jack and his expression was sombre. "I went with her to the charity shop." His face became puzzled as he examined the jacket more closely, tracing his fingertips over the fabric. "She's sewn something else into the lining." He picked up a probe off a tray of instruments, and worked at the stitching for several seconds. Finally, he carefully extracted something from the hole he'd made. "Emergency money," he said, holding two five pound notes, and a tenner, aloft.

Molly frowned, as if she was puzzled. "Why did she sew them into the jacket?" she asked Ianto.

_Because after you've been transported across time and space you never want to be caught flat again,_ Jack thought. He glanced at Ianto, and he seemed to be thinking the same thing.

"That jacket, it was sort of a security blanket," Ianto explained. "She never went anywhere without it. I suppose, she thought if her pocket was picked, or handbag stolen, she'd still have something to get her home."

"Your card and twenty pounds," Sherlock said, "overlooked by her captors." He shook his head in disappointment. "Very sloppy of them." He picked up the worn, but well cared for, pair of jeans, that were lying next to a modestly cut white blouse. "There are still storage folds in the clothing, and according to the SOCO photos, the blouse had been incorrectly buttoned. She was nude when she was killed, and then dressed before the body was dumped." He held the blouse underneath his nose and inhaled deeply. "Although it is faint, the scent of laundry detergent and the stronger odour of lavender and lemon air freshener still cling. What do you make of that, Mr Jones?"

Ianto's brows knitted together as he considered the problem that Sherlock had set before him. "That the clothing she was wearing was washed, and then stored away. Perhaps to remove any trace evidence a kidnapper might have left behind."

"Top marks!" Sherlock exclaimed with delight. He shifted his gaze to Jack. "I can understand why you promoted this one, despite his relative youth."

"The crime scene photos showed her propped against that alley wall, like any of a hundred other homeless people," Greg Lestrade said. "Dozens of people probably walked by her without noticing. To them she was completely invisible. Whoever dumped her probably counted on that. She'd probably still be there if Constable Smith hadn't tried to move her along."

"But why Sasha?" Jack asked. "It doesn't make sense."

"She did a credible job as passing for human," John said. "But what if her secret had become known? Someone with exotic tastes might pay a lot of money to … You know."

John looked away from Sasha's body as he spoke, as if his thoughts had made him uncomfortable. And somehow, it made the notion that she'd been targeted for sex because she was alien even more awful. Still, what John said wasn't wrong, Jack had to admit to himself. Dabbling in the unknown could be a powerful aphrodisiac, as he well knew. In other times, on other planets, Jack's shore leaves had been made more diverting by sexual experimentation with other species.

When he was more interested in getting laid than pursuing the thrill of the hunt, he'd gone to pleasure palaces and indulged his carnal appetites without sparing a thought towards the idea that the people who were servicing him weren't doing it willingly. He looked down at his feet, suddenly ashamed at his past selfishness. He pulled his thoughts away from his past, raising his head to regard those who stood over Sasha's corpse. "So how do we find this brothel?"

"I've got a contact or two on the Vice squad," Greg Lestrade said. "Maybe one of them has heard a rumble about a specialist operation."

Sherlock made a sceptical noise. "One that deals in snuff?" He shrugged. "I suppose it is possible, although highly unlikely."

"Accidents do happen," John said. "What if this wasn't a deliberate killing?"

Ianto gaze flickered to meet Jack's face as he speculated, "A domination fantasy gone wrong?"

If anything, Sherlock's expression became even more derisive. "Then why hide his identity with a condom and gloves?" he huffed at Greg Lestrade's wide-eyed look of surprise. "You failed to take notice of the trace of powder from a pair of surgical gloves on her shoulder, Lestrade? It was quite obvious. Whoever killed that woman knew there was every probability that his actions would result in her death. Maybe it was a fantasy, and he had enough money to pay for it. He was rich enough."

"How did you work that out?" John asked. "I mean, if he was going to a specialist brothel then he probably wasn't on benefits, but rich enough for for a brothel keeper to arrange that kind of an experience?"

"He slipped up, John, as most over confident people do," Sherlock replied. "He'd recently been to a barber, or more likely a stylist. There were bits of hair on the neck of the victim that weren't hers, and just the ghost of an expensive men's fragrance on her skin." He shut his eyes for a moment, smiled as if he had found something in that great, computer-like brain, and opened them again. "Xerjoff Nio, if I'm not mistaken. One hundred and ninety five pounds for a fifty millilitre bottle."

"That's fantastic!" Lestrade turned to Molly. "So you can run DNA."

She in turn, looked like she didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, but had no choice. "There were only a very few fragments. And none of those were root ends. In time, maybe..."

The detective inspector's expression became disgruntled. "Yeah, all right, Sherlock. I see your point, but I'm checking with my contacts anyway."

Greg Lestrade sounded like he knew he was grasping at straws, but he pulled out his mobile and made the call anyway.

* * * 

Drew sat at the conference room table flipping through the inventory of items from Sasha's bedsit. There wasn't much there. A few clothes in the wardrobe and dresser. Some second-hand posters and bric-a-brac. There had been a stack of notebooks in the desk. Sasha had block printed out words and phrases in her native Solari, and then translated them into English. Those notebooks had already been sent to be scanned into the language database, but Drew had retained Sasha's journal, written in halting English, to get a sense of the dead woman.

The first entry had been written two weeks after her arrival at Flat Holm. The first sentence was unintelligible, but it was followed by a translation.

_I am learning to write and speak a new language! English! It is the language of my new home. _

Feeling a stab of reflexive annoyance that there was no mention of Welsh in the journal, Drew flipped pages. The more pages he skimmed, the more English dominated, until there was only an occasional word was written in Sasha's native tongue. 

She had been a quick learner. Adaptable. But then again, she would have had to have been, they had cut her loose from Flat Holm after only a few months.

Her file from the island sanctuary revealed a little more. She had been in good health, although there were indications that she'd led a difficult life. On Solari she had been a domestic labourer, and had worked in an inn. She knew all about scrubbing floors and washing dishes. At Flat Holm she had mopped the ward floors without anyone asking her to, because she thought it was expected of her. She had taken it as given that she was meant to be useful and earn her keep.

She wasn't the sort of person to question those she presumed to be in authority. She anticipated their wants and filled them without being asked. She responded with disproportionate gratitude to small kindnesses.

In a place like London, filled with cynics and sharpsters, she would have been a babe in the woods.

Drew sighed, and closed the file. The grim story of Sasha Sixtrees wasn't really enough to keep him distracted, especially since the active part of the investigation was going on a hundred and fifty miles away.

He felt odd. Not unwelcome exactly, but he couldn't ignore the feeling that he was an object of curiosity. Even though he no longer looked like Andy's identical twin – his hair was a darker shade of blond, and his nose and chin had been surgically altered to change the shape of his face – he was still Andy's clone, with most, but not all, of his memories.

He had a few of his own, those of life on Flat Holm, and of the patients and staff he'd come to know. But he had no personal memories of Cardiff, and very few of the people who were now his colleagues. He supposed he should try and rectify the situation sooner, rather than later. He should go downstairs and see what everyone else was getting up to. He started to rise, and then looked down at the journal. It wouldn't hurt to have a careful read, rather than skim the thing, just in the name of being thorough.

Time slipped away as he became immersed in Sasha's journey from a shy and frightened young woman, to one on the cusp of embracing her new life. He felt a bond with a woman he had never known, and now could only know through her writings. She had been lost and alone, and yet had found a way to start anew, and now he was about to embark on a similar journey. The more he read, the angrier Drew became. Someone had snuffed out Sasha's life right as it was really getting started. He wanted to find out who had done such a thing, and make them pay.

* * * 

"I'm glad it's you in charge while the boss and Ianto are away, and not me." Mark sounded like he had bad news, and unconsciously, Andy braced for it. "We've got a tripped alarm down at last night's event site."

"Outstanding," Andy replied. It was just what they needed, another toxin-spewing alien to contend with. Felicity and Dan had spent most of the night watching over their patients as they detoxed, and if there were more of the creatures running loose, then they might be in for more rough times. Maybe even a repeat of the Stealthapede incident. "I'll take Max with me. If we're lucky, it will turn out to be a wandering seagull. If not, he can start repackaging our latest menace right there on the spot."

He disconnected the call and stretched tension out of his neck. Then he got up from his desk and tapped on the wall two cubicles over. "Field trip," he said when Max looked up from the training manual he was reading. Andy glanced at the page as Max marked it to take up later. It was the section on altering alien crime scenes. He shook his head. "The basics are good enough, but we really do need to update the forensics sections." He made a note in the constable's notebook he still carried in his breast pocket to pull together some more current resources for incorporation into the manual.

"Right. We've got a bit of Animal Control work to do." He looked down at Max's stylish office shoes. They were more appropriate for travelling the corridors at the Assembly, than clambering along the rocky seaside. "You better grab your wellies while we're downstairs getting our kit."

"Is this the bilge spill from last night?" Max asked.

Andy nodded. A sewage leak. A faulty gas line. A random electrical short that resulted in fire. An escaped wild animal being transported by a travelling circus. They were all simple, but plausible cover stories that Torchwood used on a regular basis, and much easier to explain away, even if someone questioned them, than the truth.

Max had recently grown a pencil-thin moustache. The effect, when combined with his high cheekbones and closely cropped brush of hair, made him look like one of the 1930's Harlem jazz musicians he favoured listening to with the volume cranked up high, when he thought no one else was around. He stroked his moustache contemplatively, and his gaze turned inward, as if he was viewing their cover story from an outsider's perspective, and then he said, "We better wear boiler suits, too."

Andy chuckled and then said, "Always thinking about the optic, aren't you?"

Max shrugged. "That is my job." He frowned. "Animal traps might raise uncomfortable questions." His expression became thoughtful. "Although we _could_ package it as an influx of sewer rats attracted by the waste."

"If anyone could sell that story, Max, it's you." Andy slapped the PR specialist on the shoulder and then cocked his head. "Come on, if it's venom-spewing aliens we've caught, and not seagulls, we need to get a move on."

* ** 

After a few hours of unbroken sleep, Felicity felt considerably better. She rose from her bed in the ready room, and then went straight to the infirmary to pick up a fresh set of scrubs. "What have I missed?"

Dev handed over a clipboard containing updated vitals on Malcolm Melvin, and a report from Dan Chen regarding the lads at the hospital. The results were much the same. For several hours, as they went through detox procedures, the patient's status was touch and go as their temperature and blood pressure fluctuated. That was followed by hours of residual hallucinations as their bodies stabilised.

Dan noted that he found the hallucinatory period the most frustrating, which tallied with Felicity's feelings. There was very little that could be done to mitigate the situation. They had both tried techniques used to calm Rift returnees, like limiting typical hospital stimuli, in favour of soothing music and darkened spaces. They had both used aromatherapy to override the typical chemical odours left behind by disinfectants and evoke pleasant memories. Nothing had any effect. All those affected had spent the night battling monsters only they could see.

Felicity flipped through the report and then detached a plain, unmarked envelope that was nestled under the clip. She held it aloft. "What's this?"

Dev made a 'go ahead and open it' gesture as she fought not to smile, and Felicity felt an answering grin begin to light her own face.

She slit the envelope quickly, and then unfolded a sheet of paper that had already been folded and unfolded several times. "You did it!" She scanned the results from the training facility. With their stamp of approval, Dev had made her status as a first person on scene responder, official. "Top marks!" Felicity swept her protégée into a hug, and for a moment all the dark things crowding her mind fell away as they giggled with delight like a pair of school kids.

"Now I don't have to pretend to be an EMT, because I am one!" Dev said with obvious pride as they broke apart. "I've sat through the classes, done the practicals, and taken the tests, so no one can say otherwise."

Felicity slapped her hand against the letter. "I'm so proud of you. Look at that list of certifications."

Dev sobered. "I wanted to show you first, and then the captain, but I hear he and Ianto have gone to London on a case."

Felicity nodded. "A sad one. Sasha Sixtrees, one of the returnees, was murdered there."

"Is there anything we can do?" Dev asked.

Felicity shook her head. "Right now we need to learn more about our furry friends. I didn't have much of a chance last night, with Malcolm in the state he was. So give me twenty minutes to pull myself together, and then, after we look in on him, we can see just what makes the little devils tick."

* * * 

John was a doctor without a patient, and Greg was a copper who, strictly speaking, was without a case. The Torchwood people were keeping him around for reasons of their own, but as far as the investigation was concerned, it was fairly clear they were more comfortable with their own methods, rather than exploiting the resources of the Met. As for Sherlock, as usual, he was there because he wanted to be, and what anyone else thought was irrelevant. He had disseminated a considerably less brutal photograph of Sasha Sixtrees through his homeless network and then, after he'd assumed the posture of a great, brooding eagle, he'd retreated into his head to piece together the various clues. They knew the how and why of Sasha's death, but they had no idea of the where or the who. So far CCTV had turned up nothing on either front to aid in the investigation.

But there was something that could be done. It was dull, and it would be frustrating, but even donkey's work sometimes led to a result. "I'd like to go to the coach station," he said to the room at large, "and show around Sasha's photograph."

Sherlock was too lost in his head to hear him. Greg got up out of the chair in the corner where he'd been watching the others go about their various tasks and said, "I think I'll tag along and stretch my legs."

Captain Harkness glanced over and nodded his permission. "Stuart, you and Ianto go with them."

They made multiple A4 sized copies of Sasha's photographs, both the one that was face on and the one in profile, and then left the confines of the morgue.

Alone in the corridor, John tried to strike up a conversation with the two Torchwood agents. "So, aliens," he began. "Not little green men, then."

They, in turn, exchanged resigned looks. "Not as often as you've been led to believe," Ianto replied. "Nor are they grey with big black eyes." Stuart cleared his throat, and then shrugged, as if to say 'sorry'. Ianto flattened his lips, but then he shrugged back, silently communicating that perhaps his colleague had a point.

"Well, some of the Grey alien stories aren't entirely wrong," he admitted. "But they don't kidnap humans for laboratory experimentation any more. That's strictly prohibited."

Greg stopped dead in his tracks and John couldn't avoid bumping into him when Ianto added, "Has been since 2001."

Stuart's shoulders began to shake. And then it became obvious that he could no longer contain his mirth. He started snickering. Ianto's lips twitched at their reaction as well.

"Oh, very droll," John said, when he realised the pair were having them on. "But seriously," he said before Greg could lose his temper, "enough people from other planets come here that we require a special service to deal with them?"

The Torchwood agents sobered. "Most of the time, they're no different from any other wayward travellers," Ianto explained. "They're lost, or their ships have broken down, and we help them get back on their way. Other times, getting home isn't quite so easy, so we help them start over here."

Suddenly everything seemed a bit surreal. John had to remind himself to take a breath. "That day in the railway station, Sherlock said he'd tip me a wink the next time he had a client from Alpha Centauri." Greg raised an eyebrow at John's revelation. "I thought he was kidding."

"You mean he knew about this all along?" Greg asked, pulling up short once more.

John shrugged, mostly because he really didn't know. 

The Torchwood agents remained quiet as well. The corridor, as they neared the exit, was no longer unoccupied, and not an appropriate venue for a classified conversation. The question hung on the air as they navigated past medical staff and family members who had been relegated to a confined area for their smoke breaks.

Outside the hospital they surveyed the street. It was the middle of the day and both the road and the pavement were heavily congested. Even so, walking would be faster than sitting in traffic, even if they could manage to hail a taxi. John and Greg fell in mutely alongside the Torchwood agents, and the four of them assumed the semi-aggressive posture of city workers on their lunch breaks, bobbing and weaving amongst the more leisurely strolling tourists, as they hurried down the embankment towards Victoria station.

* * *

Ruby was stiff, and in pain, 'Mr Champion of the People' had been enthusiastic with his use of the switch, and she bore a series of fine cuts on her thighs and bottom that still stung, even though she'd used plenty of salve after he'd left for the night. But if anything, her pain made her even more determined to escape her prison. Ruby expected the guards to be hyper-vigilant after Sasha's death, but instead, they were ill at ease and distracted. There could be no better time to make her break for freedom. She peeked out of her doorway, and saw the coast was clear. Stealthily she navigated the corridor to the door at the end of the hall. Often, especially when there were new boys or girls that hadn't been broken in yet, it was locked, but when Ruby pulled on the handle, it opened to reveal the staircase, and no guard. With a thumping heart, she ran down the back staircase, and then, after pausing long enough to catch her breath and steel her nerves for the last dash through the kitchen, she bolted out the back way.

The sunlight was dazzling. Ruby blinked tears out of her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd breathed free air. Still half blind, she ran, flat out, down the street, past a long row of fine homes. She wondered if any of _She Who Must Be Obeyed's_ neighbours had any idea of what sorts of things they got up to. Of course it was possible that some of these fine people were also her clients, Ruby thought sourly.

She put the neighbours, and what they may or may not have known, out of her mind, concentrating on what she would say to the police when she was out of harm's way. Ruby wasn’t like most of the others. She hadn't blocked out what had happened to her, or who had done it. She had paid attention. Unlike poor Sasha, who disappeared into her own head, she had committed the faces of her clients to memory. And if someone had slipped up and used a name instead of an alias, she had made a point to remember that too. It was her superpower, Ruby told herself. The ability to capture in her memory what was going on around her, yet not let it touch her at her core, where it mattered. She had always known there would be a day, like this one, when she would escape.

When she would be free.

She needed to find a constable and turn herself in. But as luck would have it, there really never was one around when they were needed. She kept running. She kept mentally practising what she was going to say when she finally found help, because she wasn't stupid. Decked out as she was, clad in lounging pyjamas and a pair of furred mules, the police's likely response would be to treat her as a private mental patient who was off her medication. They would offer her tea and soothing words until her keeper could be located. They wouldn't believe a word of her story. They would just humour her until her keepers could be located, and then she would be returned to her velvet-lined cage.

The sedate row of houses gave way to shops, and a traffic choked avenue. Ruby ran on, becoming breathless and fatigued, as she ducked and dodged around people who might have even been able to help, if she wasn't so determined to put as much distance between herself and the brothel.

"Oi! You!"

Ruby barely noticed the delivery van driver she'd sent spinning. She'd finally clapped eyes on a constable giving directions to a pair of Japanese tourists. A few more yards was all she needed, and then she'd be in safe hands.

"Look out!"

Somebody screamed. It might have even been her. Ruby went flying, tumbling arse over tea kettle. The motorbike she'd collided with skidded under an SUV.

Ruby's superpowers flickered, and then everything went very black.

* ** 

Finding the coach driver who had been on duty the day Sasha went missing, turned out to not to be the lucky break they'd hoped for.

The driver, Ross Martin, shook his shaggy grey head when John showed him Sasha's photograph. "I'm sorry, lads, I'd like to help. But, truth be told, after twenty years, unless they cause me bother, I never remember nobody no more."

His companions shrugged philosophically, and wished the driver a good day. They had known it was a long shot. That was obvious, even to him. John realised he was foolish to get his hopes up, but he was still determined to keep trying. They divided the stack of photographs, and decided to split up into teams to canvass the staff who worked at the various service desks, and in the small collection of grab and go food stands, and the other shops that catered to the travelling public.

Stuart craned his head up at the cameras. John followed his gaze. With as many of the devices mounted as there were, it seemed impossible that one of them hadn't captured _something_ amongst the millions of frames of stored images. Relying on the CCTV meant they were literally drowning in data, which was why he thought they needed to step back and try a more low tech approach. Before there had been CCTV, there had been people. And a few of them, even if they lacked Sherlock's keen senses, noticed things. Maybe someone had seen Sasha and would remember her.

Sherlock had already spread the word to the homeless network. John saw a busker he knew slightly, and tipped his head in greeting. The busker saluted back and strummed the opening chords to _You've Got a Friend_ , which John supposed was his way of communicating that he, and others like him, were on the job.

They worked their way around the terminal, questioning everyone who might have seen Sasha, from the attendant at the left luggage counter to the cleaners who were busy tipping rubbish from bins into a large, rolling cart. After showing Sasha's photograph countless times and coming up empty, they met up with Ianto and Greg at a greasy spoon outside the terminal.

The establishment did smell of hot fat. But it also smelt of grilling bacon and hamburgers. Everyone seemed to perk up a bit as they caught the scent of food, and Ianto smiled in downright relief when he saw the fancy espresso machine behind the counter. John smiled too, as his own stomach growled. No doubt everyone had missed breakfast on account of the case, and they were all starving. And if Ianto was as sleep deprived as Sherlock surmised, he could probably use a serious jolt of caffeine.

A large woman, who projected an air of industry, bustled up to the table. She surveyed them one at a time and said, "Afternoon, gents. What will you have?"

Greg looked up at the menu board and then he glanced around at what looked appetizing at the other tables. A fair few number of the other customers were eating breakfast, even though it was late afternoon. "Full English all round?" he said to the others.

Stuart and John nodded. Ianto said," Coffee with mine." The woman called their order in from across the room, and was about to move off to another table as John proffered a now dog-eared photograph. "Sorry. One more thing. Have you seen this young woman? Possibly as long ago as a month back?"

The server took the picture from him and studied it closely. Her brows knit together and then she nodded. "I remember now! She was with that lad, chatting up a storm. Lit up her face, she was so excited. Hardly looked like the same girl."

Greg leant forward. "What lad was that?" he asked, as Stuart pulled out a notebook and pen from his inside jacket pocket.

The server pressed her lips together. And then she closed her eyes and pivoted, so that she was facing a table on the opposite side of the room, near a hallway that led to the toilets. "Let me think. He was probably in his middle twenties, maybe a little younger. It was a rainy day, and he was dressed like a typical lad, grey hoodie, jeans and trainers, and – Oh! One of those dark beanies – black or maybe dark blue – that makes them all look the same. I couldn't see his hair, but his eyes were dark. Brown." She nodded as if confirming her recollection. "Yes. Brown eyes. He had a nice face. Not handsome, but pleasant. There was a little spray of freckles across his nose. The sort of lad you would be comfortable with if he offered to help carry your shopping."

She turned around and when she faced them again, she was frowning. "There was something else, towards the end. Oh! I remember. As I said, when she first came into the caff, she was so full of energy. But by the time they finished their meal, she had wound down. Yawning, big like. I've seen that happen often enough, people who've been on long journeys get some food in their bellies and it drains the blood right out of their heads. Sets them up for a good sleep. But I remember her saying she'd just got off the bus from Cardiff. It's probably nothing, but it struck me odd."

Someone behind the counter whistled. She touched John's shoulder. "'Scuse me, that's your food. I'll be back in a tick."

Before she had moved across the room, Ianto was on his mobile. "Jack, we've had a result." He recounted what their server had described as plates of fried eggs awash in baked beans and surrounded by rashers of bacon and fat sausages, were set down before them. He pocketed the mobile as mugs of tea and coffee, and a stack of toast slices were nestled in the empty places on the table, and then, after tucking a napkin into his shirt collar, he picked up his fork and dug in, clearly ravenous. Taking that as a signal they had leave to eat, Greg dumped sugar in his tea, and Stuart also tucked a napkin over his tie before reaching for a slice of toast. Seeing that no one was making a play for the brown sauce, John helped himself to a liberal portion, and then he began to clear his plate.

* * *

Mark fed the description of a young man wearing a beanie and hoodie, paired with the photographs of Sasha into the computer and almost immediately came up with a hit. He'd been on Sasha's coach, and had been the fourth passenger to disembark after Sasha as she stepped into the depot.

He considered the implication of that as he captured the image and fed it into an enhancement program. It could mean that their new person of interest had deliberately targeted Sasha. But there was nothing so far to support the assertion that they had known each other prior to getting on the coach. There was nothing in Sasha's journal about a boyfriend. A dump of the records for her, still missing, mobile showed she rarely used it, and even then it was mostly to keep in touch with work, or occasionally, her case worker at Flat Holm. She didn't own a computer, although she did have an account at the internet café down the road from her workplace, that she used to access the email account she'd been assigned. Based on those findings, whoever he was, it seemed more likely that he must have targeted Sasha while on the journey from Cardiff to London.

The grainy CCTV frame became a credible likeness. Mark switched programs again, fed the image into the various national databases and once again, sat back to wait.

* * * 

Dissection wasn't one of Felicity's favourite pastimes, but until they actually acquired a xeno-biologist, it fell to the medical staff to investigate alien lifeforms. Especially ones that were potentially dangerous, like the still unnamed creature that had been recovered from the beach near the Penarth Marina.

They had taken photographs from all angles, and then anaesthetised the creature. X-ray and a tissue scan – using an alien device analogous to a CAT scanner – had come next. Those had been followed by taking numerous samples: blood, and tissue scrapings, and toxin carefully milked from the glands she had located behind the animal's retractable fangs. Once Felicity had collected all the information she could from the living creature, all that remained was to administer what she had hoped was a lethal dose of barbiturates, and sacrifice her specimen at the altar of science.

"Scalpel, Dev."

It was a painstaking process, documenting the disassembly of an animal. Layer after layer had to be stripped away. The function of organs had to be speculated over, and information gleaned from the shape of muscles and bones and teeth. Although the outward appearance had been described by all observers as 'cute' or 'harmless', the animal was a predator. The long ears probably were useful for tracking prey, or for picking up the movements of animals even further up the food chain. The dappled brown fur would have provided a protective camouflage, if the animal had lived on a grassy plain. Whiskers were sensory organs, and the ones that Felicity excised seemed to be attached to scent glands, so it was possible they were used for marking territory, much as cats did when they rubbed their faces against door frames or furniture.

"Flis, I'm back!" Andy called cheerfully. He strode into the laboratory, followed by Max. They both carried pairs of live animal traps. "Drew said you wanted these things down – " He stared at the half-dissected creature and wrinkled his face. "Couldn't you put up a sign on the door warning people?"

Dev slapped a probe smartly into Felicity's outstretched palm, and then picked up a camera and took several snapshots of a round, dark green organ adjacent to what she presumed to be the stomach, both in situ, and then against the background of a metal tray. "Those with delicate tummies proceed with caution?" She wrinkled her nose at the idea. "Nah, it's more entertaining to see the likes of you turn colours."

"Ha. Ha," Andy replied.

"Is there some place we could put these?" Max asked.

Felicity looked up from her work and tried not to smile. Both men did look decidedly unwell. "If you're going to be sick, do it in the loo. I've got my hands full here as it is." She tipped her head towards the counter that lined the wall. "Over there, Max."

"Her, I expected," Andy said sullenly, "But my own future wife and help-meet." He sighed dramatically. "Where's the loyalty, I ask you."

"It's not as if you haven't seen worse in the field," Felicity reminded him.

"Yeah, but these little mites are so cute," he countered as he placed his traps next to Max's, and then pulled up a corner of one of the covering drapes to illustrate his point. "With their wiggly button noses and all." The alien creature inside twitched its whiskers at him and put out a tentative paw. He dropped the drape with a sigh and glanced back at the dissection in progress. "To see it in bits like that."

Dev bumped Felicity's shoulder. "You never said he was such a softy. Or such a traditionalist. _Help-meet? Seriously?_ " She snorted in derision at the archaic phrase.

"I never knew," Felicity replied, "about him being such a big girl's blouse. The rest... " She raised and lowered her shoulders, and eased a cramp out of her neck. A cramp that her occasionally traditionalist, nonsense spouting sweetie would massage away when there were fewer witnesses. "He makes up for it in other ways."

Easing the kink in her neck only seemed to make the rest of her muscles complain. Felicity put down the probe and took the opportunity of Andy and Max's interruption to stretch out a knot in her back. "But before you go completely soft on me, you should know that my rummage through that 'cute little mite's' innards has been educational. Not only are they poisonous, but despite their cuddly bunny appearance, they're strict carnivores, with rasp-like tongues that would be extremely efficient for stripping flesh from bone. I'm guessing they use their apparent defencelessness as a way to lure larger animals. Once they've got dinner in their sights, they turn the tables, using their venom to render it helpless, so that their pack can feed." She glanced over at the covered cages that now lined the counter. "Those boys were lucky that help was so close by, because if there hadn't been – "

She let the image hang on the air. Max's face drew down into deep lines as he muttered potential headlines under his breath. A marauding pack of carnivorous rabbits would be a tough story to massage into something palatable. "Maybe we should set a few more traps," he said.

The soft sound of an animal crying in distress began to emanate from the covered trap at the end of the row. The others joined in, creating a heart-rending chorus.

Felicity imagined some civilian hearing that sound and then ignoring the warning signs to stay off the beach. Even though she was a toughened veteran of crime scenes and battlefields, she shuddered. "Maybe you should at that," she agreed.

* * * 

"On three – " Orderlies assisted ambulance attendants as they lifted the young woman, in what was once a pair of expensive purple lounging pyjamas, onto the examination table.

She was a mess, no doubt about it. Battered and bruised from her impact with both motorbike and roadway, there were at least two fractures that paramedics had stabilised on scene before transport.

Dr. Marian Archibald stood back as nurses stripped away what they could of the victim's clothing. She made notes with a clinical eye of the damage done, and mentally prioritised the actions her team would need to take. Bones bulged underneath the skin of the young woman's leg. Her left arm was still bound to a transport board. "Compound fracture of the femur," she murmured. "Simple break of the humerus." And then to Doris Macumbe, her lead assistant, she said. "We need X-rays."

Doris passed the order along, and then began to attach monitoring leads to the broken body under their care.

"Get bloods and run another line," Marian instructed a waiting technician.

She did a quick and dirty assessment, flicking the beam from her pen torch into the victim's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive," she announced. "That's a good sign." It meant, at least, that there was no serious head injury, despite the blood from cuts on her scalp. There was a cut on her cheek that would require suturing. And it was likely that her nose was broken and possibly the right cheekbone as well. Pulling her stethoscope into place, she listened for unusual lung sounds, and felt a sense of relief when she found none. "Lungs are clear." And it seemed likely that the ribs were intact. "Also good," Marian muttered as she straightened.

The young woman, whoever she was, was lucky. So far, other than the superficial injuries and the broken bones, she seemed to be reasonably unscathed.

Her patient moaned. Marian went immediately to reassure her. She gave her a friendly smile and said, "You've been through the wars, my girl, but you'll be all right. Now what's your name?" 

"Ruby," the young woman whispered. "Help me."

Marian nodded. "That's what we're doing. We're going to get you cleaned up a bit, and then we need to see to that leg of yours. It appears to be badly broken."

"Sher...Sherlock... Holmes," Ruby clutched weakly at Marian's forearm. "Need Sherlock … Holmes. Please!"

One of the monitors began to sound. Marian looked up automatically and registered the readings. Ruby's blood pressure and heart rate had both increased alarmingly.

She'd never met Sherlock Holmes, although she had a phone relationship, of a sort, with his partner, John Watson, and John owed her a favour. "I'll call him, Ruby. Right now. Just you relax."

Ruby allowed herself to be guided back onto the bed, but she wouldn't let go of Marian's forearm. "Promise. Sherlock Holmes."

"Sedative," Marian mouthed to Doris, who nodded back. She gave Ruby another reassuring smile, and said, "I'll make the call right now."

To be continued... 


	3. Chapter 3

* ** 

"Do you want the good news or the bad news," Jack asked when Ianto and his companions strolled into the morgue.

He noticed that something had changed while they were out. The two civilians seemed less reserved around his people, as if they'd found some common ground. Which, he supposed, was a good thing. Jack wasn't especially happy about working with outside help, in fact, he would have preferred to retcon everyone who'd come in contact with Sasha Sixtrees and handle the case on his own. But people-wise, they were, admittedly, thin on the ground, especially since his London team specialised in burglary and other means of artefact recovery, rather than criminal investigation. For better or worse, they were stuck with DI Lestrade and the rest until the investigation was concluded. Jack sighed mentally as he looked at his ad hoc team. He supposed he could always retcon them later, at the conclusion of the case.

"You've put a name to the description," Ianto replied, anticipating Jack's news. He was holding a plastic carrier bag that was at odds with the his sharply tailored suit. When he crossed the room and opened the bag for Jack's inspection, there were wrapped sandwiches inside. He took one at random and nodded, as Ianto offered the bag to Molly.

Sherlock had ceased meditating after his mobile had started bleeping at intervals. Now he was ignoring them all as he typed replies to texts. When Ianto approached with his bag, Sherlock shook his head and waved him away, like an irritating fly. Jack opened his mouth to make a crack about manners, but John Watson caught his eye. The apologetic look on the other man's face was enough to stop him cold. He glowered at Sherlock for a few sharp seconds, projecting that he thought the private detective was a tool of the first order, and then unwrapped his lunch.

"Albert Donovan Green." Jack took a bite of a roast beef sandwich and talked around it, earning a dour glare from Ianto. "Twenty-four years old. Small time offender. Lots of ASBOs for minor offences like loitering and soliciting, but not much jail time. London boy. His last known address was near Kings Cross. It burnt down six months ago – the flat, not Kings Cross – and after that, he seems to have dropped off the map."

"So our work was wasted," John said.

Lestrade shook his head. "Not entirely. Look what we've learned. We now know whoever's behind this put stringers on coaches, looking for vulnerable girls. We know young Albert chatted Sasha up, turned on the charm, and then slipped her something to make her compliant. Maybe her instincts that something was wrong kicked in, but too late. We should look for others fitting the same profile."

" _I met a creepy guy on the bus?_ " Jack pulled a sceptical face, "Do you guys at the Met even take those seriously?"

"It's a line of investigation," Lestrade countered. "We should check with the transport authority. We've already talked to them, and they've agreed to show Sasha's picture to the officers that were working that weren't on today. If you've got a photo of this lad, we should ask them to have a look at it, and we should also chase up any dodgy business he might have been connected to."

John's mobile rang. He glanced down at the display with a frown, and then answered. "John Watson." The frown got deeper as he listened to his caller. "No, it's no trouble. I'll see you soon." He disconnected and then looked up at them. "We may have had a break. A real break this time. That was a doctor at Charing Cross hospital. They've had a RTA victim come in, a young girl, in a bad way. She won't talk to anyone but Sherlock."

"And what makes you think that it's a break for us?" Jack asked.

"She was wearing purple pyjamas, and according to the constable that rode in with her, she was running as if all the devils in Hell were on her tail." He met Jack's eyes as if daring him to talk down the lead.

Jack shoved the remains of his sandwich into his mouth and nodded. "Sounds promising. Someone get some grapes, and let's go to Charing Cross."

* * *

Drew shut the journal's pasteboard cover for the final time. By the end of his reading, he had gained a rudimentary knowledge of the Solari language, and he had learnt a great deal about how Sasha had coped with her involuntary relocation to Cardiff, but he hadn't found evidence of a secret lover, or any reason for the London trip, other than a persistent encouragement by a mate called Patty to live life to the full, and to throw off the shackles of duty and routine occasionally. From everything that he and the others had turned up so far, it seemed like Sasha had a poorly timed _Seize the day!_ moment that had put her squarely in the sights of Albert Donovan Green.

He rose from the table and gathered up the journal and his notes, and carried them downstairs. Andy was with Mark, down in the laboratory wing, trying to get a trace on Albert. Drew wondered how he would react if he actually got Albert inside an interview room. At the moment, he was inclined to grab the little toe rag by the scruff of his neck, and give him a good shaking.

Mark had multiple screens set up on his work station. He and Andy were sitting in front of them, swapping between camera views.

"Lads," Drew greeted the pair. "Any news?"

"The boss called about twenty minutes ago," Andy replied. "They might have had a break. Young woman collided with a motorbike.

Drew frowned, not seeing the connection. "And?" he prompted.

"Well," Mark replied as he swapped views again and then pointed at the screen. "There she is," he said. Drew crossed the room to get a better view of the monitors. He looked over Andy's shoulder and saw a blurry frame of a woman ducking around another pedestrian. "It could be a coincidence, and it's just a bad week to be a London prostitute, or it could be a connection. As you might imagine, she ended up in hospital, and when she regained consciousness, she wanted to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Hang on," Drew squinted at the screen as Mark enhanced the image. "What's that she's wearing?"

"Lounging pyjamas?" Andy shrugged when the others looked at him oddly. "Felicity gets a catalogue with those women's frilly bits in them. I may have taken an odd rummage through it."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Who'd have guessed?" he commented in a wondering tone of voice. "Not that I've given it a lot of thought, mind you," he said, apparently to disabuse Andy that he spent long hours contemplating the subject. "but I always figured Felicity as a WYSIWYG sort of woman. Sports bras and cotton briefs to go with her trouser suits and lab coats."

An image of Felicity in skimpy black lace came unbidden to Drew, and he had to shut his eyes against it and push it away. It felt _wrong_ to think of her like that. Felicity was a good friend, like the sister he'd never had.

Fortunately, Andy was too busy preening to notice. "And that's where you'd be wrong," he replied, a trifle smugly. "That no nonsense exterior hides unexpected depths." He smiled as if he realised just how lucky he was.

An unsettled feeling rolled over Drew. Maybe he should find some place else to live until he could sort a new flat. There was always the ready room. He could kip there and use the old showers to wash up. He could volunteer to work construction crew, and plead convenience as an excuse to stay over. It seemed like a plan. Andy and Felicity were getting married in a few weeks. Staying clear of the turmoil involved with last minute planning hangups would only be a side benefit.

"So what were you doing, before I walked in?" he asked. He felt a desperate need to get off the subject of Dr Felicity Porter, and her choice of underwear, and back on track with the case.

Mark smacked his keyboard in frustration as the camera network failed them again. There were no clear images of the woman's initial escape. "The victim didn't know where she'd come from. Which is another point in the favour of her being a link in the chain rather than an unhelpful coincidence."

"Another kidnap victim," Drew surmised as he looked at the few good frames Mark had captured of the woman, frozen in desperate flight.

"Working against her will in a brothel," Andy finished the thought. "Based on the fancy pyjamas in the middle of the day."

"But we're getting closer," Mark said. "We at least _might_ know the general area where this brothel is located." He put a map of London up on the screen, and then using his tablet, he began to draw on it. "The RTA was here." He drew a circle. "And we have sightings of her running down the road, here, here, and here. There's a camera there." He drew another circle and then put an X through it. "But it's out of service." He drew more Xs. "As are these cameras." He looked up and then raised a hand in a temporising gesture. "But don't read too much into that, because the council is doing maintenance in the area. They're down for refurbishment, and not because someone has been tampering."

He tapped more keys and the views on the screen changed back to ones of Victoria Station. "I'm afraid we've learnt all we can from the mysterious woman in the sexy pyjamas, and it's down to the boss and others to see what else they can develop on that front. Until then, I'm going back to tracing Albert Green."

Which seemed like a good idea to Drew as well. Albert had boarded the bus in Cardiff. Maybe someone locally could supply information that those in London could not.

* * *

It was a forty-five minute trip to Charing Cross Hospital. After a short conference, it was agreed that Stuart would arrange for removal of Sasha's body to Cardiff and take charge of their notes and exhibits, thus freeing the morgue for its intended use, while the rest of them would attend the hospital.

They clambered into a taxi for the journey across town. Just as they were leaving the A4 in their final approach to the hospital, Ianto's mobile sounded a text alert. He looked at the screen, typed a reply, and then handed the device to Jack.

He glanced down at the screen and said, "More of them? I want a containment team in place tonight."

"Already authorised," Ianto replied. He put his mobile back into his pocket, and then smoothed the fabric over the slight bump that marred the line of his jacket.

John was burning with curiosity. _More of what?_ he wondered. He knew he shouldn't ask, he'd worked in classified situations before, but Torchwood worked with _aliens_.

"Trouble at home?" Greg asked for him.

Jack shrugged, as if the situation was of little consequence, which was a direct contradiction to his annoyed tone of moments earlier. "A small pest problem. My team is handling it."

"Would that be related to the highly questionable sewage spill that closed a portion of Penarth Marina last night?" Sherlock asked mildly.

John looked up and saw a dark gleam in Sherlock's pale eyes, which meant he had inside information.

Jack met Sherlock's questioning gaze. "Why would you ask that?"

Sherlock shrugged as if it was inconsequential. "It seemed an odd set of circumstances. Last night four youths were evacuated from the area by ambulance. A large portion of the beach front was closed, due, allegedly, to contamination from bilge by a negligent yacht, and yet the only clean up crew working the site was seen to be carrying away small animal traps, rather than doing any sort of environmental mitigation."

"Your sources for all of that?" There was an undercurrent of menace in Jack's otherwise mildly voiced question.

"The newspapers, primarily," Sherlock replied. "The text of the articles said one thing, but the photographs told a different story."

Ianto's lips had compressed into a flat line during Sherlock's explanation. John wondered if he had anything to do with formulating the cover story that Sherlock had just picked apart.

"And that story was?" he asked quietly.

"That there had been no yacht with a faulty bilge pump. That the youths had been exposed to something that they shouldn't. And that whatever that was, it was still present, and very much alive, when the Cardiff news sites updated their websites this afternoon." He held up his mobile and showed the rest of them its screen. Two men in council clobber were carrying off traps, allegedly filled with rats attracted to the spill.

"Even if the sewage had washed up on the beach, it would have taken more than a few hours to attract enough vermin to cause an issue serious enough for the Cardiff Council to spring into action," Sherlock said as he put his mobile away. "I'd suggest that whoever does your disinformation keep that in mind for the next time."

Ianto seemed to make a mental note, and then he smiled politely at Sherlock. "Thank you. Jack –"

During Sherlock's dismemberment of the cover story, Jack had fixed a polite expression on his face, but even John could tell he was seething. Fortunately, Ianto seemed to be aware of his partner's mood as well. "He's not wrong. I should have staged something with a boat."

"You had your hands full as it was," Jack grumbled back. He blew out breath, and some of his anger seemed to leach away with the exhalation. "You know, this was a whole lot easier pre-internet. Information was a lot easier to control when it was just regular media people. Now everyone wants to get in on the act." He looked over at Greg, who was nodding his head as if he agreed. "I guess you've had your share of this sort of thing."

"We'll, I've never had to cover up an – " Greg dropped his voice to a whisper. "– alien invasion, but, yeah, investigating crime was a lot easier when we could control the flow of information." He sighed and seemed to be imagining a far away time. "I miss those days."

The tension caused by Sherlock's comments ebbed away, and a tentative peace was restored as they pulled up to the entryway of the hospital.

* ** 

Out seemed to be a good place to be. As long as he was actively working the case, Drew was less likely to think about whatever was itching at his subconscious. He was feeling a compulsion to scratch that itch, turning his investigative abilities onto his own problems, until he resolved what it was that was bothering him.

The itch was a side effect of the Retcon, or so he'd been told by Dr Waverley during his therapy sessions on Flat Holm. The problem was, rather than wiping his memory and then retraining him from the ground up, which would have been comparatively simple, they had left Andy's knowledge and experiences more or less intact. From there, at his request, they had excised certain memories. And that, the doctor had explained, was something of a risky proposition. By returning to Torchwood he would be surrounded by sights and sounds, even odours, that might unlock the doors in his mind they had deliberately sealed.

The trouble was he was a copper, through and through. At least he had the memories and reactions of a copper that were drilled into his brain and muscles by years of second-hand experience. He, or rather Andy, had learnt to pay attention to his gut. To listen to the whispers at the back of his brain, and follow to wherever they led him.

Drew put on his coat and stuffed the pockets with copies of photographs of Albert. He didn't have an answer to the question that had been plaguing him since his return. He didn't know why thoughts of Felicity, or the idea of being around her, made him so uncomfortable. He just knew that he was supposed to accept that it might be an area of difficulty for him, and that he wasn't supposed to think too hard about why that was so.

 _That's the way trouble lays,_ a small voice inside his head, that sounded an awful lot like Dr Waverley, advised.

He decided to listen. He checked a car out of the Torchwood motor pool and drove to the bus terminal. There, he began the wearying task of talking to the porters and the ticket takers, the transport cops and the train spotters. Or were they coach spotters? Drew wondered as he proffered Albert Green's photograph to a busker.

"Oh, aye, I know this lad," Harvey, the tin whistle player said. "Odd one. Every few weeks he rides in on a London coach, wanders about the station a bit, and then goes straight back again." He shrugged at the oddity of the lad's behaviour, and then he jumped straight into a romping melody as a pair of obvious tourists passed by.

They obliged by smiling and tossing a coin into the top hat Harvey had set in front of his pitch, just for that purpose. He tootled on for several more bars, and then put the whistle aside again. "What's today?" he asked Drew.

"Thursday," Drew replied. "Why?"

"Cos this lad of yours always rides the Friday coach." Harvey went back to tootling on his whistle, eyeing the hat significantly.

Drew got the message. He pulled a fiver from his wallet, which was half the cash he had on him, and dropped it into the hat.

* * *

A few paces away from the Accident and Emergency department's admitting desk, John and the female consultant, who had summoned them to the hospital, were smiling awkwardly at one another.

Sherlock watched them curiously. It was clear they knew each other, but the relationship wasn't a close one. They didn't conduct themselves with the professional warmth of colleagues. Or the prickly correctness of rivals.

Ex-lovers?

Sherlock rejected the notion almost immediately. There was none of the tentative reaching out one would expect from a bittersweet reunion, and none of the tension from a relationship that had ended badly. No, the connection wasn't a romantic one, but there was a familiarity.

John pointed in his direction. If Sherlock had a watch on, he would have pointed at its face. "Tick tock," he mouthed instead.

The scowl he got in reply was predictable. John smiled one more time at the woman in the same awkward manner, and then he gestured Sherlock and the rest of their company over.

"Sherlock Holmes, this is Marian Archibald. She's the one who called us in."

Marian wasn't the sort to shake hands. She nodded her head at him, and studied his face with curiosity instead, until John resumed making introductions, and then her gaze slipped away from his to light on the faces of the others.

"Marian, these are our colleagues from the Met. DI Lestrade, uh, DI Harkness and DS Jones."

As irrelevant social pleasantries were exchanged, the puzzle piece fell into place. John had been procrastinating brunch with his sister and her new girlfriend. The girlfriend's name was also Marian. Acknowledging the connection would waste further time, therefore social amenities would have to wait. John seemed to be relieved when Sherlock asked, "Someone wanted to see me?"

Marian nodded. "I don't know how much you'll get out of her. The orthopaedic surgeon had a cancellation, and we were able to slip her in. She's being prepped for surgery as we speak." 

"Sedated?" John asked.

"She was in a lot of pain." There was a look of consternation on Marian's face as she contemplated crowding a large contingency of investigators into the curtained off area where their witness had been isolated. Sherlock decided to simplify the matter. "Harkness, with me. The rest of you – " He waved towards the bank of beverage dispensers and other vending machines. "Get me a coffee. Black, two, no better make it three, sugars."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade protested.

"Just let him do this his way." John sounded like a parent of a headstrong and difficult child. Resigned to the fact he had failed once more in some way that was important to John, and somewhat exasperated that Lestrade would feel slighted over a matter of expediency, Sherlock made a mental note to make it up to John, and throw Lestrade a bone at some more convenient time, and then he swept the curtain aside that separated him from their best lead to date.

* * *

The chair was uncomfortable and the coffee horrible, as he had anticipated, but Ianto sat in a relatively isolated corner of the waiting room with DI Lestrade and John Watson and drank it anyway, because the long day would soon be ebbing into even a longer night, especially if the case continued to progress by fits and starts. Drew's text about Albert Green's curious coach riding habits raised new and troubling questions. "Re-run the CCTV sweep of the coach station," he typed back. "Correlate missing persons reports with any hits you get."

"More bad news from home?" John asked.

"Potentially disturbing, rather than objectively bad," Ianto answered. He sipped at the dreadful coffee and imagined it tasted of freshly roasted Kenyan beans, instead of diluted road tar. "Albert Green has a habit of arriving on a London coach and then returning on a Cardiff one without leaving the depot."

DI Lestrade stopped in mid-sip and pressed his lips together as he absorbed the information, and then he said, "Say that again."

If DI Lestrade was bewildered, Ianto could commiserate. The latest result from Cardiff was as incomprehensible as everything else about the case. "One of our operatives showed Green's photo around the coach station. He was recognised by a busker who said he took particular note of Green because of his odd habit of getting off the London coach, and then getting straight back onto another."

"I don't like this." Lestrade's eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth drew down. "If he's been trawling for recruits on a regular basis, what's happening to them?"

Across the room, a woman cried out in pain. John looked up sharply, and started to rise to offer comfort, but a nurse was already at the stricken woman's side, leading her away, leaving them to speculate about the fate of possible additional victims, as they waited for Jack and Sherlock to confirm or deny whether the RTA victim was related to their case.

* * *

Her face was disfigured. Bruised and swollen. Nose broken. Eyes blackened. Tubes and wires connected her to machinery that bleeped at intervals. Sherlock noted the injuries dispassionately. He was interested to note that Jack Harkness was equally clinical. "Get what you can from her," he said softly.

To work then. Sherlock clapped his hands loudly. "Wakey. Wakey. Ms. What is your name?"

The woman stirred. She opened her eyes and then she smiled as if she was high as a kite. Covertly, Sherlock glanced around the space, but whatever drugs they had used were out of reach. "Hello." Her lips went round as she blinked them into focus. As her head rolled one direction and then the other against her pillow, and she saw the tubes and splints and wires, her expression became confused. "What happened. How'd I get … how'd I get … Where am I?"

Sherlock ignored the woman's confusion. He had no time for it. "Charing Cross Hospital. Your name is Ruby, at least that's what you told the doctors. Now. Name. Ruby – "

"Wal... Walters," she mumbled. Which was better than nothing. "I think." Her face contorted as if in concentration. "I think. Sounds right."

Obviously concussed," Sherlock diagnosed, which meant that any information she might provide was dubious at best. Still, she was the best lead they had, so she would have to suffice. "Fine. Ms Walters. You asked for Sherlock Holmes." He pointed at his chest. " _I_ am Sherlock Holmes. Now pull yourself together and tell me what you need from me."

Ruby nodded. "Stop... Stop...Sheeewhomstbeobe..."

Sherlock scowled at the slurred gibberish. He did a mental reconstruction of the mishmash of sounds and came up with _She who must be obeyed_ , which was an archaic literary reference. "Does _She_ have a proper name?"

"Miss... mistress of the house."

That wasn't much of an improvement. Although it was suggestive. "What house? Do you mean a brothel?"

A shift against the pillows was probably meant to be a nod. "House... house of pain," Ruby slurred.

"Ruby." Sherlock snapped his fingers in her face. She was fading in and out of consciousness. He bent even closer and slapped her unfractured cheek lightly. The light tap was enough. Ruby's eyes flew open and she cried out. Behind him he heard, rather than saw, Harkness react to the use of physical methods to keep their witness talking. His sharp intake of breath. The shuffle of a synthetic rubber boot sole against the linoleum as he shifted forward to protest and intervene if Ruby was encouraged in such a way again. "That's better. Where is this house?"

She shook her head dispiritedly against the pillow. "Don't know." She was barely audible. Sherlock had to bend down close beside the bed to hear her slurred whispers. "Never... knew. R– r'w hou'. Went ... through back gard... to … street."

The curtain twitched and the rings that held it to the frame rattled. Marian stuck her head and shoulders through. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. That's all the time I can give you. We need to take her to surgery now."

Harkness gave Marian an entreating look. "One more question. Please?"

Marian's expression said the delay was going to cost her. It probably was. Surgeons were notoriously busy people, and unpleasant when their time tables didn't go to plan. The one upstairs was probably clock watching as he tapped his foot impatiently against the theatre floor. Finally, she nodded. "One more. And that's it."

Harkness moved to Ruby's bedside. He touched her shoulder gently, and leant in close. "Hi. Ruby? Hey. You're doing fine. And we're going to help you." He smiled at her and she tried to smile back. "Can you tell me if there was a girl working with you. Her name was Sasha."

Tears began to leak from Ruby's swollen eyes. "Killed'r." She reached up and grabbed the lapel of Harkness's coat. "Saw 'm car...ry bo...dy 'way. Thought... I'll be … next. Thas … thas why ... ran."

She fell back limply against the pillows as orderlies swept the curtain back and pushed them away so that they could wheel their patient to theatre.

* * * 

Jack strode into the waiting room with Sherlock trailing at a distance behind him as he typed into his mobile. His face was set into grim lines. "We've got a connection," he announced.

Ianto also pulled out his mobile and began to type, in all likelihood relaying the information to his colleagues in Cardiff.

John tried to hand Sherlock his cooling coffee, but he waved it away.

"Drink it," John urged as he tried again. "You're going to need the energy."

Sherlock tried to push the cup way again. He curled his lip at the rapidly cooling coffee with disdain. "I've got a case to fuel me, John. I don't need artificial stimulants."

John snorted. "I'll make a point to remind you of that after you faint from hypoglycaemia in front of all these witnesses." He tipped his head towards Lestrade and the two Torchwood agents.

Sherlock finished his text. He shoved the mobile into his pocket and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine." He dipped a finger tentatively into the milky liquid and then, judging that he wouldn't do himself an injury, drank it down in a series of large swallows. He crushed the top of the cup and then threw it into a nearby bin. "There. Satisfied?"

John gave him a flat lipped smile in return. "There's news on the Albert Green front."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John related the story of the observant busker, and then he smiled. "And that is why I put more faith in people than technology, John. Cameras can be duped, but an observant person – " His text alert chimed, as if to underline his point. Sherlock grinned. "The net tightens." He addressed the rest of their company. "We have a witness to Ruby Walter's flight."

Jack turned away from Ianto, who was offering a whispered update of his own, and stalked towards Sherlock. "An address?"

Sherlock shrugged, as if the exact location that Ruby had escaped from was a trifling detail. "Not exactly, but close. A close examination of the rubbish from the row houses directly behind the street where Ruby had her unfortunate meeting with the motorbike, should reveal our quarry. And since one of my operatives is already on the scene, we should be able to close the net tonight."

* * *

Malcolm Melvin was tired after his ordeal, but otherwise seemed recovered. Felicity wrote notes on his chart, took one final look at the state of his eyes, and decided to release him from the infirmary. "I want you to take tonight off," she said, even though it would leave them short when they were already spread thin. "And for the next few days I want you manning a desk, rather than working in the field."

Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, and Felicity held up a hand to cut him off. "It's mostly a precaution. But think of it this way, do you really want to have a funny turn in the middle of a weevil hunt?"

The light of protest died in Malcolm's eyes. "When you put it like that," he said.

Felicity smiled. "I'm glad you see reason. And because you're being cooperative, I'll throw you a bone. You don't have to stay behind a desk. As long as you don't overtax yourself, you can help in the canteen. I don't think you'll endanger anyone as long as you're wielding a paintbrush."

Malcolm's expression became dubious. "Ta for that," he said as Felicity handed him a set of clean scrubs to replace his backless hospital gown. She pulled a privacy screen around the bed so that he could change, and then retreated to her office.

It was going to be another long night. They weren't going to have a shift change, as much as an influx of reinforcements arriving. With two operations a hundred and fifty miles apart in play, they were going to have a busy night, and that was before factoring in anything the Rift or the weevils might throw at them.

She was tired. The necropsy, and running tests on the various glands and other organs she had extracted from the predatory rabbits – which still needed a name – had taken the better part of the afternoon. Her findings on the animals themselves had been troubling. The first specimen had been a male. There had been partially digested seagull in its stomach. The second specimen had been a female, in the early stages of pregnancy. There had been ten in the potential litter, and rats in various stages of digestion in her gastrointestinal tract. The implication of a reproducing colony, with no superior predator other than Torchwood agents to keep their population in check, didn't bear thinking about.

She removed a small vial from a test tube rack and held it up to the light. Determining exactly how the toxin the animals produced worked was going to be an arduous task. Without an understanding of its basic mechanisms, they couldn't develop a counter-agent.

They would use terrestrial animals as a jumping off point for their models. They had no other real choice. Animals, at least, could provide a basis for comparison as they studied the physical mechanisms of the toxin's synthesis and delivery. But when those studies were concluded they would once again be delving into the unknown. Those bitten had reacted more like they had been exposed to poisonous mushrooms, rather than any sort of snake or other reptile. Perhaps it might be more useful to concentrate on fungus-based toxins.

Felicity sighed, knowing she was out of her depth. If the creatures did excrete an agent similar to something like death cap or destroying angel, she supposed she should count the victims lucky that they weren't facing permanent liver damage, or other forms of organ failure, although there were indications that the cognitive impairment could have lasting repercussions.

While Malcolm, and three of the lads from the beach, could look forward to a complete recovery, the fourth wasn't going to be so lucky. His trip, under the influence of the alien venom, had been a bad one. After a long and difficult night fighting nameless terrors, he was showing every sign of a nervous collapse. Dan had ordered a psychiatric consultation, and the specialist had agreed that it was going to be a long and gruelling road to recovery. Once he was medically stabilised, the Rift's latest victim was bound for Providence Park, where they would attempt to rebuild his damaged psyche. 

The privacy curtain rattled, suggesting that Malcolm had finished dressing. Felicity decided to walk him out of the infirmary. She needed a coffee and something to eat if she was going to be able to face the next several hours.

They stepped out into the main body of the old Hub just as the cog door alarm sounded. Malcolm paused on the steps, saw it was Drew, laden down with pizza boxes, and grinned. "Brilliant! I'm starving. Save some of the quattro formaggi for me. I'll be back in a tick." And then the bright grin faded abruptly, and he gripped the railing to keep himself upright.

Felicity bolted towards Malcolm. Drew did as well, although his arms were still filled with boxes. Malcolm waved them away, even though normal healthy complexion had turned chalky. "I moved too fast, is all." He gave Felicity a sickly grin. "Your point about funny turns has been made."

She looked at him dubiously. "Are you sure you can manage the showers?"

He tried for a cheeky smile, but it came across a bit shaky. "I have done since I was six."

"Uh huh. Drew, give me those and go with him." Heat from the stack of boxes warmed Felicity's forearms as she took on the burden. "It would be rather vexing if our Malcolm survived a poisoning, only to do himself permanent damage by hitting his head on the tiles."

"Right you are." Drew winked back at her, and then extended his arm, gesturing Malcolm to proceed him up the catwalk.

Felicity carried the boxes into the soon-to-be-replaced kitchenette, and set them on the table. She went to the coffee maker and started a pot, rather than making an individual cup, and as the carafe filled, she realised, although he'd been in and out of the Hub all day, she'd neglected to welcome Drew home.

* * *

Drew didn't know much about Malcolm Melvin, other than he was ex-army, and had a level head when he was confronted without warning by a weevil, which is why Jack had recruited him on the spot. They had been introduced briefly at Flat Holm, when Malcolm had been given his island tour, but had exchanged little more than basic pleasantries.

It would have been smart to ask his version of events about how he had been injured. It would keep him talking, so that his well-being could be monitored from a distance, and it might offer some insight into his thought processes. Especially why he had chosen to give the alien creature the benefit of the doubt. But Drew wasn't really in the mood to take on his role as trainer. Felicity had barely acknowledged him, not even to say 'hello', and that bothered him. Truth be told, he found himself sulking, and he was wondering why.

"Sing or something," he called out to Malcolm. "So that I know you're still on your feet."

"Right-o," Malcolm called back, as he stripped out of his scrubs, and turned the water up to full, before entering the shower stall. He broke into an murderously off-key rendition of _Myfanwy_.

" _Your gentle cheeks, O sweet Myfanwy, Why blush they not when I draw near?_ "

Drew shut his eyes and thumped his head in irritation against the ageing bathroom tiles. "Why that, of all songs?" he muttered to himself as Malcolm mangled the high notes.

" _What have I done, O my Myfanwy, To earn your frown? What is my blame?_ " Malcolm caterwauled, before making a gurgling and spitting sound as he rinsed out his mouth. 

When Malcolm evidenced no actual intent of drowning, Drew's thoughts once again drifted to Felicity. He knew that in the moments after his arrival, her immediate concern had been Malcolm's safety, because she was a professional, and that was her job. But it still bothered him that despite Andy's assurances that Felicity was the one who had extended the invitation for him to stay with them, at no point during the day had she sought him out to welcome him home.

"You're being a prat," Drew chastised his inner fourteen year old. "Flis has had her hands full with those alien wotsits, as you well know."

He did know, but it still didn't make him feel better.

"You say something?" Malcolm called over the sound of the water.

Mortified that he'd accidentally spoken loudly enough to be overheard by anyone, let alone a work colleague he barely knew, Drew called out, "No, just reminding myself of something I'd forgotten."

Malcolm broke into an equally dire version of the _Welsh National Anthem_ , and then he finished with _Blackbird will you go?_ before shutting off the taps and reaching for a towel. As he walked across the room to the row of lockers, he buffed water vigorously from his head and body.

More gently this time, Drew propped his head against the wall and shut his eyes to give Malcolm a modicum of privacy as he dressed. He heard the little voice in his head say he was heading into dangerous territory if he continued to pursue his petulant line of thought, and he silently told it that he really didn't give a toss. He needed to know why he felt the way he did if he was going to be able to spend any time at all around Felicity Porter.

* * *

Trevor Ainsley, known to all and sundry on the streets as _Big Trev_ for no other reason than he was taller than another busker called Trevor that frequented the same spaces around Victoria Station, was getting ready to call it a day. There was both folding money and coins filling his pockets, enough for a room, if he shared with another otherwise homeless busker, with some leftover for a pie and a pint.

A woman walked up to him and requested, _Scarborough Fair_ , and although it was an oft requested tune, and he'd already played it five times that afternoon, it was one he liked, so he smiled and began to pick out the notes to a variation on the opening his friend Nigel had shown him the night before, when they were comparing ways to keep from going spare when punters got stuck in a rut.

The woman frowned at first, thinking he'd started some other tune with the same name, and then he began the melody that supported the verse. The woman's frown became an appreciative smile. Nigel had explained the psychology of it. The woman was under the impression that she'd got an extra tune for her money. Halfway through the final chorus, Trev could see her surreptitiously rummaging in her bag for additional coins to toss into his guitar case. He did an intricate bit of finger picking, and then let the final note fade dramatically away. There was a smattering of applause from passers by, which Trev acknowledged with a gracious incline of his head. It was then that he saw the lad.

He was wearing a grey hoodie, and the edges of the hood were pulled well forward to obscure his face. He would have been unrecognisable, but he had glanced over at the sound of the applause, and he'd let his gaze linger over the teenage girl standing to the right of the woman who had requested the song.

Trev felt his heart tick a bit faster. There was good money to be made if information passed on to Sherlock Holmes ended in a result. The lad sighed and shifted his two-tone grey rucksack more comfortably on his shoulders, and then he walked on towards the timetable listing the comings and goings of the various coaches.

Trev smiled at his audience, and then he put his guitar away as quickly as he could manage, protecting its surface with a piece of chamois between the ageing rosewood back and the coins and bills that he hadn't yet collected. He rose with a groan – he really was getting too stiff to sit for such long intervals – and then with a limp, eased into the throng of travellers.

The next coach to leave the depot was bound for Manchester, and it looked like perhaps the lad was going to try for it. He kept his head down as he cut across the terminal to the row of ticket machines. Trev quickened his pace a bit, although his game leg protested, until he had a better view. Then he snapped photos of the lad as he bought a ticket, and sent them to Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

It had been a sad business when Stuart wheeled Sasha Sixtrees' body into the Hub, but Felicity didn't have time to mourn. They were on a tight schedule, with an operation anticipated to go live sometime that night in London. The Captain wanted more of his own people on site. Preferably female medical staff to care for anyone found still working in the brothel.

"All packed?" she asked Dev.

Dev rummaged through her hold all, pulled an annoyed face, and then went to the dispensary. She came back with a handful of preloaded syringes and a vial of pills, which she added to their roll up drugs kit. She then shuffled through the bag one more time, added the kit, and nodded back. "I hope the lads are all right tonight." She curled her hands and clawed at the air as she wiggled her nose. "With the _hell bunnies_."

Felicity rolled her eyes, and shook her head in despair at the terrible, although somewhat appropriate, name. "You'll have to do better than that, Dev. They might be nasty, but there's no indication in their physiology that those creatures came from Down Below."

Dev shrugged. "Then we'll leave it to Ianto to name them something clever. But seriously, do you think Andy and the lads will be all right?"

 _Andy and the lads_ had faced off against worse, but then again, Felicity supposed that was what was troubling Dev. It was easy to be cautious around a weevil, they looked threatening. _Hell bunnies_ were cute, and inoffensive, right up until they were sinking their teeth into your flesh, and injecting their toxins into your bloodstream.

"I think what happened to Malcolm probably killed everyone else's impulse to cuddle the little beasts," she replied. "And besides, if they're lucky, it will be a washout. No more traps have been tripped since the lads brought in the last lot, thank God. When I opened that female up and saw babies, I felt a cold shiver down my spine. Imagine a colony of those things setting up shop on the waterfront."

Dev grimaced and gave a sharp shake of her head that loosened strands of dark hair from her short ponytail. "We could always turn a weevil or two loose down there to clean up any strays. They eat rats, don't they?"

Felicity looked up sharply and saw that Dev was smiling. "Very funny, Davina. You nearly had me there for a minute."

Dev shot her a curious look, and then she picked up the intake form for Sasha Sixtrees' body and frowned at it. "Poor girl. Went to London to have a big adventure and came back in a body bag. Sometimes life is _not_ fair."

"No, it's not," Felicity replied distractedly, thinking not of Sasha Sixtrees, but of Drew, and how she'd been avoiding him all day. It wasn't his fault he'd come to them the way that he had, she'd said as much to Andy more than once. So why was she acting as if it was, now that he was once more amongst them? She realised that was unprofessional, hypocritical, and even cowardly, on her part. She vowed to make up for her standoffish behaviour as soon as it was feasible.

"Felicity," Dev said hesitantly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look done in. Are you sure you're up for this op?"

 _Love Dev for a truth teller,_ Felicity thought to herself. She gave Dev a shrug and a smile. "Needs must. Which is why I'll be sleeping in the back during the trip. Probably next to Stuart, from the look of him. And if you're smart, you'll clock out too."

She remembered that Dan was meant to put together the supply requisition that evening, and there were several items for their research into the hell bunnies she wanted to add to the list. She settled back behind her desk with pen and paper and started to jot them down.

"Leaving who to do the driving?" Dev asked.

Drew walked in dangling a set of car keys. "That would be me."

"You're not," Felicity said without looking up from her list. "You're meant to be taking a team down to Penarth Marina to check those traps." She turned around to soften the scolding and realised it was Drew, rather than Andy, who had greeted them so cheerfully. "Drew. Sorry, I –"

"Think nothing of it, Felicity," he said. "It's an easy enough mistake to make."

Felicity replayed the moment in her head. On review, the gaff was even worse. Although there were general similarities, Drew's voice was pitched lower than Andy's. If she had been paying proper attention then she would have never confused the two.

 _If you're in a hole, then stop digging._ was sound advice, and Felicity decided to obey it. She offered an apologetic smile and said instead, "Thank you for helping out with Malcolm, earlier. You really were a lifesaver. I owe you one."

Drew shook his head. "You owe me two." He pointed at his chest. "I had to listen to him sing."

"Bad?" Dev asked.

Drew rolled his eyes heavenward. "Doesn't even begin to describe it." He wandered closer to the table where Felicity's notes were stacked in a rough pile, and flipped through a few of the pages. "I don't suppose caterwauling is a side effect of that alien toxin, is it?"

"Not so far as we know," Felicity replied. "D.T.s on steroids followed by major organ damage, unless there's immediate medical intervention seems to be the extent of it. Although if you want to volunteer to be a test case, we can shoot you up, and then have you sing for us, just to double check." She pointed at the sample in the test tube rack. "I have a sample right here. And there's plenty more down in the Bio Lab."

"Maybe another time," Drew said. He picked up the packed bags sitting on the exam table. "If we're going to get to London any time soon, we need to get this show on the road."

"Right you are." Felicity took the rack containing the sample of alien toxin from her desk and locked it away in a fridge containing hazardous biological samples. _That wasn't so hard, was it?_ she asked herself, as she turned the key.

Maybe she wouldn't get being around Drew right one hundred percent of the time. But then again, in the early days of her working relationship with Andy, she hadn't always managed to get things one hundred percent right, either. Just like she didn't get things right all the time with Dev, or Ianto, or anyone else on the team. She was a human being, and occasionally she was allowed to mess up. As long as there was a tomorrow, she would always have another chance to make amends.

Having found a modicum of serenity in an otherwise trying and taxing day, Felicity turned smartly away from the fridge, and marched swiftly out of the infirmary to catch up with the others.

* * * 

Where to go next posed something of a dilemma. 221B Baker Street was on the wrong side of town, and while the 'gently used' goods store that Arts and Antiques used as a cover operation, when they weren't busy recovering suspected alien contraband, was closer to their suspected crime scene, Jack was unwilling to expose that portion of their operation to their civilian partners. After a bit of silent debate, and a side trip by Ianto to pick up Jack's Mercedes, they had opted for neutral territory, and repaired to a quiet hotel located near where Ruby had collided with the motorbike.

The room they'd been assigned was tiny. So tiny that Jack had taken one look around it and then gone straight back downstairs and engaged the one adjoining. With the door open, and the bed and other furnishings cleared out of the way, their temporary base of operations looked as if it was under renovation. But the Queen Anne chair Ianto sank into, once he'd carried the last of the superfluous end tables into the other space, was a great deal more comfortable than the chair in the hospital waiting room. He considered napping for a while, in fact he got as far as shutting his eyes, when Sherlock's text signal chimed.

Sherlock had put his homeless network on the case, explaining they were an invaluable asset, their eyes and ears far more reliable than the CCTV camera network. He had asked one specific operative, a drifter named 'Silent Jeremy' to take a shufty through the bins where they suspected the brothel operated, on the theory that the rubbish would reveal all sorts of interesting secrets.

Jack had also sent operatives. Alf and Mara, the quintessential English middle class couple, would raise no suspicions as they strolled through the area, discreetly using alien surveillance technology that was also more effective than CCTV.

"Albert Green is at Victoria Station," Sherlock announced. "He just purchased a bus ticket."

Jack was on his mobile within seconds. "Mark," he said crisply. "Victoria Station. The coach terminal. Albert Green is on the move. He just bought a ticket. No. We don't know for where. Do what you can."

Ianto shut his eyes and brought to mind the locations of all of their operatives, those already on assignment, and those potentially available. None of them were any nearer to Victoria than they were. He took his mobile from his pocket and checked the time, and then he pulled up a departure timetable and looked at possible destinations. If Albert was planning to leave town in a hurry there were several possibilities available to him within the next half hour. Ianto felt Jack's eyes upon him, and knew he was waiting for a situation analysis. He looked up and shook his head, regretting that there was nothing that could be done. "All of our operatives are in play."

Jack pushed a hand through his fringe as he stared down at the floor. His thoughts were obvious. Their best lead was about to get away from them. "Damn it."

Sherlock shrugged diffidently. "He's a minnow."

"Minnows can be used to catch bigger fish, Sherlock." Greg Lestrade pulled out his mobile and put through a call. "Yeah, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need a suspect detained. Male IC1. Age twenty-four. Five foot seven inches tall. Brown and brown. Last seen wearing – " He paused and waited for Sherlock to supply a description. Sherlock showed him the face of his mobile. Their police liaison squinted at it for a few seconds and then continued. "Last seen wearing a light grey hoodie pulled up to obscure his face, and blue jeans. He has a grey rucksack with a darker grey stripe across the middle. Victoria Station coach depot. He was by the ticket machines less than ten minutes ago. No. I don't know his destination. Right. Thanks." He disconnected. "And that, I suppose, is why you've been hauling me from pillar to post all day?" he asked Jack.

"You know, I like you, Greg Lestrade," Jack replied. "You're a lot brighter than your superiors give you credit for."

Ianto frowned at the back-handed compliment. He knew Jack was frustrated by being on the wrong side of town when their suspect was on the verge of escaping, but there wasn't any point in souring the goodwill of people who could help them. It would be better to smooth the waters before they got too roiled up. "What Captain Harkness meant to say was, you were there at the beginning, and we couldn't see this through without your valuable assistance."

Jack compressed his lips and shot a dark look across the narrow confines of their temporary situation room.

Ianto raised his head to meet Jack's glowering eyes. He lifted an eyebrow, as if to say, 'Do you want to get into his now?'

Jack looked away.

Sherlock smirked at the non-verbal domestic, missing nothing. Ianto steeled himself for another one of the detective's mildly delivered, but cutting remarks, but before it came, John said, "I hate this part of a case. The waiting. I'm always on edge."

Greg Lestrade smiled tiredly. "Better the battle, eh, John?"

John shrugged as he replied, "Once a soldier."

They lapsed into a tense silence as the minutes ticked by. It was finally broken by the ring of the detective inspector's mobile. "Lestrade." As he listened to the caller, his brows knitted together as his face drew down into grim lines. "Say that again. Slowly. What about the officers doing the transport?" He blew out a breath. "Well, that's something at least." He listened some more. "No. You did what you could. Right. Thanks."

He disconnected the call and looked at the rest of them with a disheartened expression. "Well, so much for talking to Albert Green. He's dead."

"What?" Jack and John exclaimed simultaneously.

The detective inspector ran a hand over his face, and it was obvious that he was as shocked and surprised as the rest of them. "They put him in a car to take back to the nick," he explained. "And just as they were pulling away from the depot, another driver lost control of their vehicle and ploughed smack into the panda car. The constable who was driving may survive her injuries, but everyone else was killed on impact."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps Green was more important than I thought, after all." He picked up his scarf, which he had discarded on their arrival, and studied it thoughtfully for several moments before tossing it away again.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John asked for them all.

"Think about it, John," he said. "Whoever is operating the brothel has had a fatality and an escape in the span of two days. Green was spotted with a rucksack, something he didn't make a habit of carrying on his usual journeys. Therefore, he was planning a variation in his usual travelling pattern. Maybe getting out while the getting was good. Perhaps someone decided that he was a loose end and it would be safer if he was clipped."

Sherlock's logic had a cold ruthlessness about it that made a chilling sort of sense. Ianto looked up and captured the detective's gaze. "What about anyone else that might be working in that house?" he asked softly.

Sherlock smiled with grim approval. "Precisely, Mr Jones. We know from the death of Sasha Sixtrees that in all probability their keeper has deemed them expendable. If Albert Green's death is an indication that the operation is closing under pressure from recent events, then there is no guarantee that any remaining inmates will remain safe for much longer."

"How long until our people arrive?" Jack asked Ianto.

Ianto removed a Bluetooth headset from his pocket and fitted it into place. "Felicity, ETA?" He nodded. "Right. See you soon." He disconnected the call. "They should be in position in fifteen minutes." He returned his attention to the device. "Mara." And then after a moment. "Status?" Again, Ianto listened to another one of his team-mates. "You're quite sure. Thank you. Hold your position. We'll see you soon."

He disconnected a second time. "Number Fourteen is our target."

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and tapped at the screen, and then at the keypad, and then turned the face so that the rest could see for themselves. The screen displayed the outline of a house. It was lit up like a Christmas tree with yellow and orange lines snaking around the doors and windows, and into various access points.

"Those are the usual sorts of energy feeds – electrics, video, and so forth – and a somewhat more robust than usual security system," he explained. He withdrew the device and tapped at the keys some more. "This is Number Twelve, as a comparison."

Number Twelve was lit up in a similar manner, although the windows on the second and third storeys were missing the yellow lines that Number Fourteen had sported.

"And this is the inside." He withdrew the device again and pulled up a different view. "Electronic locks on the rooms upstairs. And on this room here." He used a pen as a pointer and let its tip hover over the screen.

"Which also contains a rather significant number of electrical devices," Sherlock commented.

Jack took the mobile from Ianto. He frowned with consternation as he studied the layout of the house. "Cameras," he said. "Wired to what are probably the rooms where they entertain clients. See how the feeds are all coming from those rooms on the second floor?" He shook his head and said, "This is the sort of place that generates skeletons in the closet."

"Blackmail?" Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out slowly again. "This set up just gets better and better. Exclusive. Expensive. And I'll bet every one of the clients is a pillar of society. So who do you reckon is behind all of this?"

"Someone who enjoys having power over the powerful," Sherlock said as if it was obvious.

John made an unhappy sound as he looked up at Sherlock. "Isn't this the sort of thing your brother should know about?"

Although they had never met, Ianto knew of Mycroft Holmes by reputation. Despite his generic job title of _Whitehall clerk_ , he was actually a powerful member of the British government. Occasionally Jack spoke to him on the telephone. The conversations were always filled with veiled barbs, and afterwards, Jack generally spent an hour down on the firing range, or he went out chasing weevils, to burn off his temper. The clerks who worked under the elder Holmes brother – the ones that Ianto dealt with – were exacting in their requirements, but otherwise fair and polite. He had the impression that most of them were in awe of their employer, even when they resented the long hours and fastidious perfection he required of them.

"Probably," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "No doubt he already does. That is he does if the blackmailer has started exerting his or her influence. But somehow, I doubt it. It would make much more sense to gather their incriminating material first, and then, after their targets have gained a sense of complacency, send a reminder along with a demand."

"Nice people your girl got mixed up with," DI Lestrade said to Jack.

Jack shot him a scathing glare, but before he could follow with an equally pointed remark, there was a knock at the door.

To be concluded. ..


	4. Chapter 4

* * * 

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear," Sherlock said as he peered through the peep-hole before opening the door. "But in this case, Captain Harkness, he seems to have knocked on some other door. I believe these people are here to see you, which means that John and I have become surplus to requirements."

Two women and a man stood in the hallway. Sherlock cast his eye over them and made a lightning assessment. The taller of the two women had the posture of a soldier and the scent of someone who spent time in both an infirmary and a laboratory. The younger one seemed more streetwise, a former constable then, but the same faint odours clung to her clothes and skin. The third member of the party was less interesting. He also had the air of the constabulary around him. He appeared to be the sort of copper who would be as comfortable breaking up a bar fight as giving directions to lost tourists. All of them wore side arms underneath their jackets.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John asked.

"The women are medical staff, and the ex-constable looks like he would be capable enough in a fight. We would only be in their way."

Sherlock explained the obvious for John's benefit, mostly because he knew it would save time. He had very little interest in the next part of the operation. He could visualise all of it so clearly. The Torchwood agents would surround the house. They would use confiscated alien technology to blackout the residence and disable its security measures before storming its portals and rescuing anyone left to rescue. Then they would wipe all evidence of their presence from the scene and disappear again, back to Cardiff or wherever else they holed up between missions.

"And what about me?" Lestrade asked. "Am I surplus to requirements as well? Are you planning to arrest whoever is inside that house? Or are they meant to disappear mysteriously?"

Sherlock watched as Harkness and Jones had another silent debate. Clearly the question of what to do about the madam and her staff had not been discussed in any sort of depth or detail.

Harkness finally turned away, having reached a decision. Ianto Jones had the unhappy look of one who knew what they were about to do was correct, even if it might be morally dubious. "Yeah, you're done too," Harkness said. "I appreciate all you've done, but sometimes the ends of these cases can get … messy. You're better off if you keep your distance."

Lestrade seemed relieved. Sherlock knew he was probably worried about legal niceties, like warrants, which given the whisperings he'd heard about Torchwood's occasionally high-handed methods, they probably had no use for.

"Come on, Lestrade," Sherlock said. "Come back to Baker Street with us. We'll have a takeaway, and –" He looked at John for help. He had no idea what else average people would do in such circumstances.

"Uh, oh, yeah," John said, as the light finally went on behind his eyes. "I've got a new bottle of scotch. After today – "

"Say no more," Lestrade replied. He gave a polite smile to the still yet-to-be introduced members of Torchwood, shook Jones' hand, and fired a sarcastic salute at Jack Harkness. "It's been interesting, Captain. But if our paths never cross again, that will be all right with me." He tipped his head towards the door. "Come on, lads, let's go be somewhere else."

* * *

"Well, that was easier than I expected." Jack felt a considerable sense of relief. As useful as Sherlock Holmes and his associates had been, he hadn't really liked including outsiders in the investigation. Even with confidentiality agreements in place, people had a tendency to talk. John Watson was a particular concern. He had that blog of his, and even if he didn't refer directly to the case, an indirect reference could still cause trouble.

Maybe he should have a Retcon-assisted word in the trio's ears before they headed back to Cardiff. Ianto would probably disagree, arguing it would be better to have a resource in place the next time an investigation took them to London, just as they had leant on the Heddlu de Cymru when they were short-handed in Wales. But they would need to debate the issue later. Right now they had the more pressing matter of a break-in to plan, and potential hostages to rescue.

Jack's gaze travelled around the cramped confines of the hotel room. He still couldn't believe the hotelier had charged such an outrageous fee for such a ridiculously small space. He'd been imprisoned in larger cells. And as for the bathroom ...

_Focus, Jack,_ he told himself firmly. _Mission first. Complain later. Better yet, have the governors give over some of Torchwood One's vacant properties._

Something else for the ever-growing _To Do_ list. Was it any wonder he had put off rebuilding for as long as he had?

_Still procrastinating, Jack._ He gave himself a sharp tug by the invisible collar, and squared his shoulders before turning to face his team. "It's time to go to work, people."

In reply, Jack received a chorus of grim nods. He opened a link to the surveillance van, and they began to discuss tactics.

* * * 

"I thought you said we were going back to Baker Street."

Sherlock ignored Lestrade. Instead, he tapped on the glass that separated passengers from the taxi driver, indicating they were safely inside, and that he should drive on.

The driver's name was Tom Thomas. Other than the fact Tom's parents were highly unimaginative, Sherlock had already gleaned that their driver owned a small parrot, probably from the South American based Arinae family, and he had recently become a father. The parrot was of little interest, but he found the cabby's sleep deprived driving habits somewhat worrisome.

"John," Sherlock said when they pulled up to a traffic stop. "In the name of public safety, give Mr Thomas some suggestions how he and his partner can cope with a colicky infant."

Thomas whipped his head around and stared at them through the divider. His face transformed into an expression of surprised recognition. "You're that Sherlock Holmes bloke!"

Lestrade made an irritated sound which Sherlock ignored. John shot him a bewildered glare, and then said, 'Right' under his breath, before he began to ask a series of questions about Tom Thomas the Younger, which kept both John and Lestrade off the topic of why they were not going to Baker Street.

The truth of the matter was even though he had no desire to participate personally in the raid on Number 14, Sherlock was rather curious to see if his predicted scenario matched up with how Captain Harkness and his team actually handled the operation. He wanted to watch, from an appropriate distance, and he thought there would be a rather good view from the rooftop that looked down upon number 14's back garden, since he doubted rather seriously that Torchwood would be brazen enough to knock on the front door.

John promised to drop round the Thomas residence just as Sherlock spotted the mouth to the alleyway. Thomas slowed and pulled to the kerb. He declined both fare and a tip, insisting that John's advice and offer of assistance was more than adequate compensation, as long as Sherlock's autograph – for the wife, you understand – was thrown into the bargain.

Lestrade made a noise that suggested he was suffering from sudden onset colic as Sherlock scrawled his name across the back of a business card, which judging by the quality of card-stock and ink, had been printed at home on a mid-price computer rather than at a commercial print shop. Bargain concluded, they escaped the taxi and picked their way down the alleyway to the fire ladder at its terminus, and then ascended to the rooftop.

"I see." Lestrade stood near the edge of the roof, in the shadow of a chimney stack, and took in the view.

"I thought you might." Sherlock removed a pair of night vision binoculars from his coat pocket and handed them over. Lestrade took a look through them and then handed them over to John. "Rather watch, would you, Sherlock?"

"I was thinking of your professional reputation, Lestrade. Doesn't your Chief Super already regard you as a cowboy?"

Lestrade's eye narrowed, and for a moment he looked as if he might argue, and then he exhaled and made a helpless gesture, acknowledging the truth of Sherlock's words. His expression became sour. "Don't think this means I owe you a favour."

Which meant, of course, that he did, which Sherlock considered to be an extremely suitable state of affairs.

"They're on the move," John whispered. To others who did not know him as well as Sherlock did, John sounded calm. But there was an undercurrent of the old fire-horse who had been left behind at the station in his quietly clipped words. Sherlock knew that his friend and partner would have preferred to have been one of the shadowy black figures converging on Number 14.

* * *

Arts and Antiques were trained housebreakers, which was why Ianto and the other Cardiff-based agents were waiting in the shadows while Gazza and Stuart blinded the surveillance camera and sent a dummy 'all's well' signal through the security system.

The raiding of the brothel was raising troubling questions in Ianto's mind about operational divisions of responsibility. Strictly speaking, the madam's crimes and misdemeanours fell under jurisdictions of the Metropolitan Police. But because they hadn't known at the beginning of the investigation whether or not Sasha had been targeted because she was an off-worlder, it had seemed prudent to sideline the locals. Now, it seemed more likely that Sasha had been targeted for her naivete and lack of connections, just as Ruby had been. A single woman, with no family and few friends, could easily be swallowed up by the Great Smoke. If anyone did enquire, then sadly, more than likely, any investigation into the missing person's whereabouts would be perfunctory at best, and then quickly shunted aside in favour of a more high profile case.

Even with the poor likelihood of a result, they should have handed the investigation back to DI Lestrade and let his detectives handle the raid, leaving Sasha out of the equation. That would still leave them Ruby, and her testimony, on which to make a case. But that would require them to retcon Sasha from many people's memories, and the use of Retcon could be complicated at the best of times.

"Ianto! Snap out of it, and move!"

Jack's voice was a harsh whisper in Ianto's ear. He flinched as he realised that in the relative quiet and darkness of his place of concealment between two tall privet hedges, he had been wool-gathering.

"Right," he snapped back crisply. Suddenly he was very much in the moment as he pulled his pistol from its shoulder holster, broke cover, and then slipped inside the open kitchen door. An analysis of the heat signatures had revealed there were eight people in the house. Four of those people were locked in rooms on the third floor.

Ianto crept up the back staircase. His heart jumped in his chest. At this late stage in his career he doubted he would ever successfully conquer adrenaline jitters, but he did his best to ignore them as, followed closely by Dev and Drew, he trailed Jack up the white marble steps.

* * * 

Sometimes Dev thought the police had trained her too well. Even the Heddlu de Cymru had given up on _Softly Softly_ ages before she had joined up in favour of flash bombs and body armour, and lots of shouting _Clear!_ as they kicked down doors and put the frighteners on anyone inside.

Now, as she and Drew split off from the captain and Ianto to climb a different set of stairs, she felt naked with just her pistol and flak vest to protect her. Sweat trickled in chill drops down her ribs and spine, soaking her tee-shirt. Dev chided herself for the attack of nerves. But she had to admit, the suspense was killing her.

Drew poked his head around the corner and then jerked back again. He took a shuddering breath, making Dev feel somewhat better about her operational jitters, and then he tipped his head sharply, indicating they should advance.

Which they did, straight into a well dressed man holding a pistol fitted with a silencer.

When he saw them, he didn't hesitate. He pointed and fired. Dev dropped, and it saved her life. The bullets went straight through where she had been standing, and embedded themselves into the plaster at chest height. She gulped her relief and tried to still her shaking hands as she lined up a return shot. But Drew got there first. He fired twice.

The man dropped like a stone. Dev pushed off the carpet and ran forward, kicking the gun away, and then checking for non-existent life signs. Her heart raced as she exchanged a tense glance with Drew. She could feel the reverberations thumping against her flack vest, and then the captain's voice was harsh in their ears, _What's going on over there?_

"Someone took a shot at us. He won't do it again." Drew reported in such a calm and controlled tone that Dev had to blink and double check it really was Drew and not Robot-Drew, which would have been weird, him already being Andy's clone and all.

_Right. Check the rooms ahead of you. Carefully. All that gunfire could make those kids jumpy._

Dev frowned. There had been an implied rebuke in the captain's instructions, and she wondered just what she and Drew could have done differently, other than use their infra-red sights to take aim, and then tackling the shooter low.

Drew shook his head, a tacit acknowledgement he was having the same sort of thoughts, but this wasn't the time or place to discuss tactics. He took a breath and then let it out again before gesturing to Dev that she should take up her position on the opposite side of the door. He counted down from three, and then they burst through the door of the room the man in the suit had come out of.

Dev wanted to be sick. Two lads, no more than sixteen, were shackled wrist and ankle to a pair of iron-framed beds that looked straight out of Charles Dickens; _Oliver Twist_ or maybe _David Copperfield_. The stark iron bars were a sharp contrast to the thick carpet under her feet, and the other obviously expensive fittings and fixtures they'd seen through their short tour of the house.

"Dev!" Drew snapped his fingers front of her face and brought her sharply back to the present.

She took a breath and then holstered her gun, while Drew took up a watchful position by the door. The closer she got, the more the lads cowered. "I'm here to help. Lads, listen to me." Dev used her best scene of accident voice; the one that was reassuring, yet authoritative enough to keep people in shock from descending into wibbling jelly. "I know you're scared. That's okay. You've been through the wars. But I need you to hold it together for just a little longer." She caught and held each boy's gaze. "My name is Dev, and over there by the door, that there is Drew. We're here to help."

* * *

_Miss Otis regrets she won't be having lunch today, madam._

The song lyric by Cole Porter floated unbidden from the recesses of Jack's brain, and he smiled bitterly. _Miss Otis_ or whatever her name actually was, wasn't going to have lunch, or breakfast, or any other meal again. Ever. Whoever had put the neat round bullet holes into her forehead and chest had seen to that.

Jack frowned as he contemplated the corpse, whose blood was still seeping into the expensive Persian rug. The woman had been in a sociable mood. There was an open bottle of Cristal champagne, nesting in an ice-filled silver urn on the sideboard, that was keeping company with two delicately carved crystal flutes. There was also a selection of light refreshments. Oysters on the half shell surrounded little pots of crushed horseradish and cocktail sauce and other goodies carefully arranged at the centre of the tray. There were slices of glossy smoked salmon on slices of buttered coarse-grained bread. And if neither of those appealed, Miss Otis's guest could always help himself to caviar with chopped hard cooked eggs and minced purple onion.

All very friendly. So why had Miss Otis's guest been so unsociable?

Ianto was grim faced when he walked into the room. "All the staff are dead."

Jack got a sick feeling as his stomach sank. "How are the hostages?"

Ianto shrugged. "Frightened, as you might imagine. Whoever the shooter was, it appeared he was cleaning house. If Drew and Dev hadn't showed up when they had –"

There wasn't any point in finishing the sentence. Ianto, who tended to be a man of few words, let the sights and sounds of the murder scene surrounding them fill in the blanks.

Jack nodded that he understood. "What about the camera room? What did you find?"

"Something troubling," Ianto replied. "You should come see for yourself."

Jack nodded, and then turned his back on Miss Otis, and followed Ianto out of the room.

They walked down a short hallway and carefully veered around the corpse of a man in evening-wear with a 38 revolver tucked inside an armpit holster. Unlike his mistress, he'd only been shot once through the heart, which had been plenty, and yet it struck Jack as odd. "Doesn't it seem strange to you that the staff was only shot through the chest while the madam was shot through the head as well?"

Ianto mulled it over as he contemplated the corpse at their feet. "Like a message being sent."

"Like that, yeah," Jack replied absently.

"A business rival, perhaps. Or maybe even the madam's boss," Ianto speculated further.

"A bullet seems a harsh way to say, _You're fired,_ " Jack said.

Ianto shrugged. "And yet, it's not completely unheard of."

There was an awkward moment as Jack realised he'd come close to using just such a method, once upon a time. He wondered bitterly if he'd ever make peace with that awful day, but before he could apologise yet again to Ianto, Stuart approached from the opposite end of the hallway.

"Boss," Stuart said gravely as he fell into step. They walked in silence the rest of the way to the camera room.

"What do you have for me?" Jack entered what had been in its former life a butler's pantry. It had been converted to a high-tech data collection point, and a desktop server and other computer gear had taken over a polished oak work surface that had formerly been occupied by tea trays and dusting cloths.

"There's no physical media," Stuart said as Jack examined the space. "Everything the cameras captured was uploaded straight away somewhere off site."

"Damn it," Jack said softly. He didn't like what that implied. "Temp files?"

"We should be able to retrieve something from the cache," Stuart said. There was an implied _unless_ left hanging.

Jack nodded that he understood. This was a job for Mark and the suite of data recovery tools that were powered by the mainframe. "Pack that up. Make sure our people leave a clean scene, and then lets get the hell out of here."

* * *

When a plain white van, the sort which would elicit no undue attention, pulled up smoothly near the back garden hedge, Sherlock decided that they had seen enough, and so, no doubt, had Lestrade. He plucked the binoculars from the detective's hand and said, "Time to go."

When Lestrade looked as if he might protest, Sherlock reminded him, "We are meant to be at Baker Street."

John was looking at him with a sort of curious suspicion, as if he knew there was something afoot, but he couldn’t quite work out what. But like the good friend that he was, he clasped Lestrade's shoulder and said, "And we did promise you that takeaway."

Lestrade's brow knit, and he pressed his lips together, because even though he often missed the obvious, he wasn't stupid, and he knew that he was being purposely distracted. But during the time of their acquaintance the inspector had learnt to pick his battles carefully. So he turned away from the back garden at Number 14 just in time to miss the egress of Team Torchwood – including four obvious former hostages – and the removal of several objects that would no doubt prove difficult to explain in any normal sort of circumstances.

Sherlock wasn't entirely happy. On the one hand, he had satisfied John that he wasn't mad, at least on the subjects of aliens inhabiting the Earth. But while the mundane aspects of the case offered little of interest, there were other aspects he found intriguing, and wished to pursue further, whether he had Torchwood's permission or not. He supposed he could have a word with Mycroft. Although that would mean owing him a favour. Still, the night was relatively young, and events were still unfolding. There might be an opportunity to re-insert himself into the case yet.

* * * 

Andy sat at his desk with a cup of coffee in hand and watched the cursor blink on his computer's screen.

The machine seemed to be saying, _Well, get on with it, then._ Which, while occasionally the imaginary prodding was a useful thing, tonight he found the situation report too daft to contend with. Probably, because it had been a long day, and he was tired, he could easily imagine – once he had typed up the report and hit submit - that the computer would too. And then it would sprout arms and tie him to the chair until he could come up with something sensible.

He drank some more coffee and then flexed his hands and cracked his knuckles for good measure, before beginning to type as rapidly as he could manage.

_At twenty hundred hours a team consisting of Davidson, A. Bexley, B, and Chen, D, did a sweep of the incident site at –_

Andy glanced down at his notes, and then typed in the GPS coordinates for the beachhead at Penarth Marina.

_Despite the area being cordoned off to the public, we witnessed two men cooking over a campfire._

_Upon investigating further, we found the two men, Davvy Smith and Barry Jones, (of no fixed abode) roasting a brace of subject aliens, along with the pelt and bones of two additional subject aliens. Smith and Jones both advised, 'Although a bit on the tough side, the subject alien was delicious.'_

_A life sign sweep of the control area strongly suggests that the subject aliens are no longer an issue, and if they are, then their population can be controlled through –_

Andy paused typing. He drank some of the cooling coffee and tried to recall the term Felicity had used when she had been describing the hazard the animal could cause if left to multiply unchecked. It finally came to him, and he resumed typing his report.

_– a superior predator. In this case, man._

_Subjects Smith and Jones were taken to Cardiff General for observation as a precaution. Medical examination showed other than a mild case of indigestion, caused by overeating, neither Smith nor Jones suffered any ill effects from consumption of subject alien._

_END REPORT  
_

Andy held his breath as he tapped the _submit_ button. The chair didn't grab hold, and the computer didn't laugh at the method by which the alien threat had been contained.

The relieved feeling lasted five whole minutes, and then his phone rang. He glanced at the display, smiled when he saw it was Felicity, and then the smile dropped away again as she described what they would need when the various members of the team returned to Cardiff.

* * *

Greg was just popping the last bit of a prawn egg roll into his mouth when his phone rang. "Lestrade," he said around a mouthful of pastry and savoury filling. He had frowned as soon as he had clocked _Donovan_ on the caller I.D., knowing it only meant bad news, but the longer Sally talked, and the worse the news was, the more his frown deepened. "No. You stay put and keep an eye on things. Send a car round to Baker Street and I'll see you soon."

He looked away from the mobile to see John and Sherlock regarding him curiously. "Someone reported shots fired at Number 14. When officers responded, they found a killing field. Four dead in various rooms in the house, taken completely by surprise, at least that's Sally's preliminary assessment."

John cocked his head to one side, and his gaze turned inward, as if he was mentally replaying the time spent observing Number 14. "I didn't hear anything like shots, did you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was already on his feet, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his coat. "Torchwood has decided to be generous, Lestrade. They've given you a crime scene."

John also got to his feet, hastily collecting empty food containers and plates and carrying them to the kitchen, before he picked up his own discarded jacket and pulled it on.

A few moments later, there was an official sounding knock on the door, which was followed closely by Mrs Hudson's resigned greeting to a constable.

"Sherlock," she called up the stairs. "The Inspector's driver is here."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called back merrily before sweeping down the staircase, leaving Greg and John to catch him up. It was fairly obvious that in Sherlock's mind, since they had started the case together, he had every right to see it to its conclusion. And, as Greg hustled down the stairs to catch his ride, he had to admit that Sherlock wasn't wrong.

* * * 

Jack used his vortex manipulator to override the security system and let his team into a Bayswater flat. It was late, and they needed a place to regroup after the break in, and the flat would be much more comfortable than the rooms over the pawnshop in Hackney where Arts and Antiques planned their jobs, or the shoebox of a hotel room they had camped out in before the mission. As the flat had formerly been a Torchwood One safe house, Jack figured what had been theirs was by rights his, and if the governors disagreed, then they could all argue about it later. He ushered everyone, including the four former hostages inside, and then, after making a few more passes over his wrist strap, he brought up the lights.

"There should be emergency supplies in the kitchen and hall cupboards, maybe even fresh clothes," he told Dev and Drew before glancing over at their bewildered, and obviously still frightened guests. "Do what you can and get them comfortable."

He got twin nods from Dev and Drew, and then Jack put his palm on Ianto's shoulder, stopping him before he went searching for the kitchen. The slight contact had a restorative effect, and Jack maintained it longer than was strictly necessary to attract Ianto's attention. He saw fatigue in Ianto's face, and the comfort he was taking from the not-an-embrace, and Jack felt a sharp stab of guilt about sending him away before Ianto could get so much as a cup of tea down. But the murder house had filled Jack with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. "I need you and Felicity to go back to Charing Cross Hospital."

"What for?" Ianto asked.

The cleaning up aspect of the killings at Number 14 had bothered Jack since they had zipped the assassin into a body bag. "Two things. I want Torchwood eyes on her as long as Ruby is in hospital. And – " Jack made his gaze travel from Ianto's weary face to Felicity's. "I need Ruby to forget about Sasha. There's enough evidence at Number 14 to back up her story for the police, without complicating their picture even more."

"Sherlock Holmes will make the connections," Ianto reminded Jack. "He's like our computer, the way he joins up all the dots."

Jack shrugged. "Maybe he will. In fact, I hope he does. I want justice for Sasha, and every other person who got swept into the house at Number 14. But we can't have the police looking too closely into Sasha's life. And without her body, they can't get very far with the CPS anyway." Jack sighed, tired to his bones. He let some of his discontent show on his face as he said, "Now get moving."

Felicity nodded and said 'Yes, sir' even though it was obvious she'd rather be upstairs attending to her other patients. Ianto merely pulled out his own set of keys to the Mercedes from his pocket, indicating that, at least for the moment, he was content to let matters lie. The girl in the purple pyjamas would be getting another visit soon from Scotland Yard, and this time there could be no mention of Sasha's murder as Ruby related the tragic details of her confinement at Number 14.

* * *

"You look like something the cat dragged in," Mark said cheerfully to Stuart as he entered the science lab.

Very carefully, so as not to unnecessarily jostle any of the equipment he had been charged with transporting, Stuart rolled the trolley containing the computer gear confiscated from Number 14 alongside Mark's antiquated desk, and replied, just as cheekily, "Says the man who looks like he watches the cat." His gaze turned serious. "Don't you have a home to go to?"

Mark swept an arm through the air to draw Stuart's attention to the shabby elegance of the Victorian splendour that composed the science lab. "And leave all this? Never." He shrugged. "Besides, with all that's going on, what would be the point? I'd get home long enough to put the kettle on, and then there'd be a call ordering me to come straight back. Better to den like the boss does."

He tipped his head towards the trolley. "So this is the computer from number 14?"

Stuart nodded and then he pointed at a device that looked a bit like one of the newer smart phones and said, "There was no way to tell if it had a poison pill installed, so I hooked it up to one of those new virtual power sources you sent over, so the system wouldn't think anything was amiss."

"Good man." Mark studied the modified piece of alien technology hooked into the computer's innards. It was in truth a bit creepy the way the device worked. When placed near something like a computer with an active power source, it would quiver like a hunting dog that had caught a scent. After thirty seconds or so, wire-like legs would sprout from the base, and it would spring, like a demented spider, and seemingly meld with the computer's power feeds, allowing it to be disconnected from a stationary energy source.

It was like an uninterruptable power supply, only better, because it didn't need to be hooked into a power source. Discovering the _spider battery_ down in a forgotten corner of the archives had been a good day, as far as Mark was concerned. And lately, good days had been few and far between.

"The Captain wants anything you can recover," Stuart said. "And if it's to do with Sasha Sixtrees, or her murder, so much the better."

Mark nodded absently, already busy accessing the forensic tools he would need to prise the computer's secrets from its more obscure memory locations. Stuart watched him work, partially for his own edification, and partially, because he enjoyed observing someone who was truly gifted at their craft going about their business. Time passed. Occasionally, one or the other of them would get up to refill coffee cups from the fancy pod dispenser parked on the shelf, or just to have a bit of a stretch. Stuart was thinking he might be ready to do just that, when images began to scrawl across the desktop monitor.

Mark whistled softly. "Bloody Norah," he said.

Stuart stared at the screen and found the surprised sounding curse was an apt one.

* * * 

"I know what I'm meant to be seeing," Greg said as he surveyed the crime scene at Number 14. "But what am I really looking at?"

His gaze panned over the room again. Even if he hadn't known about Torchwood's planned operation, every one of his copper's instincts were telling him that there was something very off.

"Very good, Lestrade." Sherlock smiled at him approvingly. "There is hope for you as a detective yet."

"Sherlock!" John's reproach was sharply delivered. "Be nice."

Greg ignored the pair. He smiled to himself, despite the grim surroundings. It was a rare thing to see two people click as completely as John and Sherlock had. Although it was early days, and as often as Sherlock led John astray, it still seemed John was going to be the steadying influence that Sherlock needed. Which was a good thing, in his view. It meant that Sherlock might finally break his arrested adolescence, and grow up to be the man he was destined to be.

Sally was upstairs with SOCO. When Greg had left them, they had been frowning over the hallway carpet. Someone had been shot upstairs, and had lost a considerable amount of blood. So much, it was a bit of a miracle the victim had left the scene under his own steam. There was a blood trail down the back staircase that had ended near the street, and there were indications that the wounded person had been assisted through the garden, based on how their heels had left drag impressions in the grass and dirt.

"It would appear that Torchwood wasn't the only one intent on shutting down this operation." Sherlock pointed at the bullet wound in the female corpse's forehead. "The shot to her chest would have been more than sufficient to shred her heart. The bullet through the forehead was a message."

Greg rounded on Sherlock, and he did his level best to rein in his irritation. He'd arrived at the same conclusions himself, but that didn't really help him understand the _Why?_ of the scenario. "Any thoughts on who might deliver that sort of message?"

"It seems very Mafia," John said. He hadn't had much to say since they had begun their inspection tour of Number 14, other than to confirm Sherlock's observation that the call regarding shots fired had occurred much later than the series of executions they were now investigating. He looked over at Sherlock, as if gauging his reaction to the hypothesis, before shifting his gaze to meet Greg's and asking, "Do we have Mafia in London?"

"All sorts," Greg replied. "Russian. Turkish. Various Asian firms, plus there's the home-grown sort. But it's been a long time since we've seen any of that Black Hand sort of stuff." He contemplated the corpse and considered the possibilities. "Still, given this was a brothel, and the way it was abruptly shut down... A turf war. I suppose that could be the message behind the head shot."

Sherlock made a sound that suggested, rather strongly, that he doubted Mafia involvement. "It would appear that the gunman was already at work when _our new best friends_ broke in. They shot him, but only after he had killed the madam and her staff. No doubt, he was shot upstairs, near the rooms where the hostages were kept between clients. Then his body was carried down the back stairs, upright, to give the appearance he was still on his feet."

"And then, after they'd done what they came to do," John said, latching onto Sherlock's train of thought, "they fired shots, so that the neighbours would alert the police."

Greg mulled the scenario for a few moments, and then he nodded. It did seem to fit. If he hadn't known of Torchwood's involvement, then the blood upstairs would have bothered him, but not enough to cause sleepless nights. The empty iron beds, and the shackles still hanging from the frames, on the other hand, would have kept him awake as he wondered what had happened to whoever had been kept captive, and if there was any hope of saving them.

"It's too bad they cleaned out that computer room," John said.

It had been stripped clean, no doubt more of Torchwood's handiwork. They had left the contents of the madam's desk intact, which would have been a sloppy move, if it had been an actual hit by a rival operation. Apparently Torchwood wanted those coded record books cracked, and any names found in them investigated.

"Well, lads," Greg said as he turned away from the body. "I don't know about you, but I think I've seen all I'm meant to see here."

"So what will you do next?" John asked as Sally walked into the room. She looked frustrated and angry, and this time it wasn't strictly down to the presence of civilians at the crime scene. Evil things had happened at Number 14, and they had found out too late to do anything about them. For the first time in recent memory, Greg was on the same page with his sergeant.

He shrugged. "Go back to the nick and start calling the hospitals. Maybe we'll get lucky and our shooter will have lived long enough for someone to get him treatment." He looked over at Sally. "Any good news to report?"

"There's DNA and fingerprints everywhere. SOCO ran out of evidence bags and had to send one of their techs to get more. From the look of things, they won't be finishing any time soon."

"Then we'll leave you to your work," Sherlock said. "Come on, John. No doubt Mycroft is loitering outside, waiting to have an officious word."

"Good riddance," Sally muttered under her breath as Sherlock, with John a half step behind him, strode out of the room.

Greg decided to let the rude behaviour slide, even though it was unprofessional, and for once, Sherlock had done nothing to deserve it. It was late, and Sally had been dragged out of a quiet night in and onto what was more than likely going to become an unsolved case.

Sherlock had the right idea. There wasn't any point in sticking around. There probably wasn't any point in calling the hospitals, other than it would get them out from under SOCO's feet. The case had all the hallmarks of an Unsolved. They would go through the motions, but unless they struck lucky, double time quick, no one would be brought to book. The dour truth burned like acid in his guts, but Greg had been on the job long enough to be honest, at least with himself. If any of the DNA collected belonged to a politician or an aristocratic, then some other Secret Squirrel would materialise to take the case off his hands and make it disappear. "Come on, Sally, you can drive me back to the nick, and then head home. We can look at this with fresh eyes the morning."

With its marble floors and tasteful paintings ornamenting the walls, Number 14 had been a beautiful home. But as they walked into the foyer, all Greg could see was the ugliness of the black hearted people that had lived there. It made him feel dirty as he contemplated the lads and girls who had been lured off coaches, confined in the upstairs rooms, and broken as they serviced clients in the luxuriously appointed guest rooms.

He needed a shower. And then he wanted a large drink. Maybe several of them, to put the day behind him.

* * *

Jack sat in the safe house's kitchen, with a cup of dire instant coffee at his elbow, and listened to the sounds of a house starting to settle down for the night. The four teenagers, whose names they still didn't know, hadn't wanted to be separated, which seemed understandable enough. They'd been through a lot, most of it bad, and those weren't the sort of experiences that could be easily left behind. It would take time, and therapy, to work through their traumas, and a safe space to do it in. Fortunately, Jack had such a place at his disposal. When they got back to Cardiff in the morning, Andy would meet them at the quay, and the survivors of Number 14 would be Flat Holm bound. There, the staff would help them remember that they were people, not objects to be used. They would learn to love themselves again, instead of looking into the mirror with self-loathing. It hadn't been their fault they'd trusted in the kindness of strangers, and had been taken advantage of instead of befriended.

His thoughts drifted from the kids upstairs to the phone call he'd just ended with Mark. Though it was still early days, and the computer was still sifting and reconstructing data fragments, what they had already discovered was disturbing. And, as it turned out, John Watson was correct, it was a matter that was going to require the involvement of Mycroft Holmes. Miss Otis had had powerful people amongst her clients. The sort of people who, if pressure was brought to bear, could cause all sorts of damage.

He glanced at his watch and considered making a call to give Mycroft a heads up, but decided against it. Although it seemed the elder Holmes rarely slept, the computer was still crunching away. It would be better to give him all the bad news at once, rather than parcelling it out. And although none of the recovered images had anything to do with Sasha Sixtrees' murder, there was still hope that something might be found. If it was, Jack wanted to keep that information back for himself. He wanted assurances that Sasha would find justice. And if Mycroft Holmes wouldn't put Sasha's interests before the Commonwealth, it was possible that Jack would find it necessary to don the black cap himself.

He heard the creak of footsteps on the stair treads and a few moments later Drew entered the kitchen carrying a tray full of cups and sandwich and crisp wrappers. He put the wrappers in one of the plastic carrier bags, and then started washing up the cups. He looked done in, like his face was melting off his skull. Jack knew it wasn't just fatigue.

"Some first shift," he said as he leant back in his chair to flip the kettle on.

Drew's shoulders lifted and fell. "Nothing like the deep end to get your feet wet. Andy's TO used to say that."

He didn't wait for the kettle to cycle. When it sounded as if it was on the verge of boiling, he picked it up and filled one of the newly washed cups before stirring in coffee powder. He tested the temperature carefully with the tip of his right index finger, and judging it safe, he drank most of its contents down, grimacing at its taste. He washed the cup a second time and then tipped his head, asking silent permission to join Jack at the table.

Jack watched the display without comment, mentally chewing over Drew's mention of Andy's training officer. There had been extensive debates about how to craft Drew's personality. After many hours of consideration, it had been deemed best to leave him the awareness that he had come to be through alien cloning technology, and that his experiences were borrowed from Andy. The reasoning made sense – there were too many ways that Drew could find out the truth and break his reconditioning – but the doctors' decision didn't sit entirely well with Jack. He wished there was a way Drew could keep the knowledge, and yet divorce it from Andy's experiences.

Drew needed time to grow into his identity. In that respect, he wasn't much different from the riftugees who, because of extenuating circumstances, had to start over fresh. They had talked about assigning him to London after his release from Flat Holm, but Andy had argued that would be too much like a rejection. Drew was family, and family was meant to close ranks when things got tough, even when the worst of the issues were inside the circle.

It was a commendable attitude, even if it Jack didn't entirely agree. He knew from hard experience what it felt like to co-opt someone else's life and call it your own. He knew how difficult it could be to measure oneself against the genuine article and see only shortcomings, as he had after meeting the real Captain Jack Harkness. Unwittingly, by keeping him close, Andy was putting Drew in that position.

He contemplated the man in front of him and came to the conclusion there was an important distinction between himself and Andy, and by extension, Drew. Andy was, at his core, a solid and dependable man of a practical nature. He didn't let his heart rule his head, unlike Jack who often let his feelings get the better of his decision making. They were different men, and it was wrong of him to second guess Drew's behaviour based on his own feelings. With a tired smile, Jack pushed the chair away from the table with his foot. "Sit down before you fall down, Drew."

"Thanks, boss."

Drew took his place at the table and studied his hands. There was clearly something on his mind. From the way he was nerving himself up to speak, Jack started to wonder if it wasn't a case of late stage jitters, because regret over the shooting didn't seem likely, given what they'd discovered. He needed a confidence boost, Jack decided. The kind that came from knowing he was a valuable and valued member of the team.

"Look, Drew, about earlier. I shouldn't have barked at you and Dev. You two were the ones facing down a gun, not me."

Drew looked up. Surprise animated his tired face. "Sir?"

Jack shrugged. "We all make mistakes. We acknowledge them, we learn from them, and then we move on. Mine was not realising I was feeling guilty over not keeping closer tabs on Sasha, even though she was doing exactly what she was supposed to do. She was living her life as a free woman, and sometimes that means things don't always work out for the best. When I heard those shots fired, I thought it meant that I was losing out on a chance to beat an explanation out of someone who had hurt Sasha. As it turns out, I was wrong."

Drew nodded, a silent acceptance of Jack's reasoning. "You don't suppose we'll ever know who sent him to shut down the house?"

There had been plenty of blood left behind. Even without a body, it was possible that DI Lestrade and the rest of his team would identify the shooter, and give proper names to the people who had died in the house. Whether that took them any nearer to an explanation of what had happened to Miss Otis and her staff was anybody's guess. "I don't know," Jack said. "What does your gut say?"

Drew chewed it over for a few moments and then he shook his head. "That they'll work it hard, and come up empty."

Jack was about to ask Drew how he felt about that, when the front door opened and the quiet murmur of Ianto and Felicity's voices filtered through the kitchen doorway.

"I'm in here," Jack called out loudly enough to be heard in the foyer, but soft enough that his voice wouldn't travel further.

Their drawn expressions didn't bode well. Jack got a sinking feeling in his gut and steeled himself for the worst. "What happened."

Ianto and Felicity exchanged a few silent words, and then Felicity stepped forward, straightened her spine, and began to report. "There was chest trauma that wasn't picked up during the initial assessment. Ruby made it through surgery and into recovery, but a few minutes after she was moved to the ward, she threw a blood clot. They did what they could, sir, but in these cases, despite their initial presentation, the patient is actually terminal at the outset."

Jack bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing. He nodded to convey he understood, and then said, "Thank you, Doctor." He tipped his head towards the sacks on the counter. "I made a supply run. Get something down you, and then turn in."

Felicity glanced towards the tumble of carrier bags with a wistful expression and then returned her attention to Jack. "The hostages?"

Jack had to appreciate her dedication. As tired as she obviously was, those in her charge still came first.

Drew answered for him. "All fed, washed and tucked up for the night, and still not talking. Dev is with them, keeping them steady. I said I'd kip in the hallway on the other side of the door." He rose from the table. "Best keep my word," he said, nodding his good nights to them as he went.

"There's another bedroom upstairs across the hall," Jack said. "Felicity, you and Ianto can double up."

"And what about you?" Ianto used his valet voice, the one that was polite, professional, and emotionally a step removed. Jack sighed to himself. With the new team their relationship had never been a secret, but it was less complicated, when they were on an operation, to maintain the façade that their private life was private.

Sometimes Jack really regretted that decision, especially when the mission had gone as sour as this one had. What he really wanted, and what Ianto needed, was the sort of therapy that came from being held close, in a quiet and dark space, where the masks could be set aside without fear of judgement.

Jack smiled and shrugged. "There's a sofa in the next room with my name on it." He dropped the smile as he met Ianto's eyes and silently communicated his regret that things couldn't be different. Ianto gave him a tiny upturn of his lips, and then he said to Felicity, "You go on ahead, and I'll catch you up."

She nodded back at him and then turned to Jack. "Good night, Captain."

Ianto went to the kettle and lifted it from the heating element, weighing it to gauge how much water was inside rather than lifting the lid. He topped it up and then started it over, shuffling amongst the bags of shopping Jack had bought but not put away. "Drinking chocolate," he said with a smile.

"I thought those kids might like it." Jack watched Ianto tear open sachets and pour the contents into mugs, and then he rose from the table and did what he had wanted to do since Ianto had come in looking so desolate. He put his hands on Ianto's shoulders and felt the tension in them. Ianto held himself very still for several moments and then he drew a ragged breath before he turned and allowed himself to be embraced.

They stood quietly. There were no platitudes. No words of solace that would make the day better. It was what it was, and they both knew it. They had done what they could do. Now they needed to muster the strength they needed to put it behind them, so they could start again and face whatever challenges tomorrow brought with it.

The kettle clicked off with a metallic thump. Ianto started to step away, but Jack held him in place for a few heartbeats longer. Long enough to brush their lips together softly in a good night kiss.

Ianto's eyes closed. He brought his palm to the back of Jack's head and held him in place as he returned the kiss. There was need in his kiss. Need and frustration and even anger. He broke away abruptly, leaving Jack breathless, and leant his forehead against Jack's for a long moment. Finally, he brought himself back under control and turned away. Without another word he made three cups of drinking chocolate, placed one of them next to Jack's half drunk instant coffee, and then carried the other two with him upstairs to bed.

Jack looked down at the mug of hot chocolate, Ianto's way of saying _I love you_ without using the words. He picked it up, took a sip, and savoured the sweet chocolate flavour. He could still feel the press of Ianto's forehead against his. The pressure of his lips, seeking a momentary escape from their wretched day. He thought of Ianto upstairs, offering the mug of comfort to Felicity and felt no jealousy. It was Ianto's way, burying his own pain by caring for others. Jack drained the mug, rinsed it and the one containing his abandoned coffee clean, and made his way to his solitary sofa.

He took off his boots and then shut his eyes, listening to the house settle into sleep. After a little while, Jack dropped off himself. He dreamt of people lost in strange lands. He saw their struggles. Their triumphs and their failures as they started over and learnt to call the strange land … home.

end 


End file.
